THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 


Mary  Midthorne 


BY 
GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 


AUTHOR  OF  GRAUSTARK. 
TRUXTON  KING  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Made  in  the  United  Sute*  of  America 


Copyright,  1911 
rtY  DODD,  MEAD  &  Co. 

Published,  September,  1911 


CONTENTS 


///I 


CHAPTER 

I 

II 

III 

IV 

V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

JX 

X 

XI 

XII 

XIII 

XIV 

XV 

XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 


PAGE 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE   :.-. 
PART  OP  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT       . 

GALL  BROTH    •  .......     >  M  w  M 

THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR    .     .  :.  >:  t.; 

SEAWARD      .........  .  ...  r. 

THE  REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS  >•  M  i.< 

THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN   .  .;  i..  [.-, 

WHEN   FRIENDSHIP    CEASES      .     .     .  i.  >;  >i 

TRAGEDY       ..........  MM 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN  :.  ;.  w 

THE  SHADOWS  FALL        .....  t.  .  w 

WHO  LAUGHS  AT  IX>VE   .     .     .     .     >,  ..  .  :. 

HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER   .      .      .     >.  >i  w  w 

LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT    .     .     .     :.     >  >  t.  w 

THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS     >,    >  w  w  w 

THE  STONE  WALL      .     .     .     .     .     M  M  K  >     i.     u  283 

A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING   .     >;    :.  >:  w  i.;    [.;    i.  306 

AFTER  THE  SERMON   .      ...     >     >  >  »  M    t..    t.  327 


TRUTHS  AXD  LIES       .... 
"Ox  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF" 
THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET 
MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  .     >     M 
THE  CUP  is  FULL      [«    M    M 


w    w    w 


w    w    BB    w    w    a 


347 
366 
388 
412 
429 


CHAPTER  I 

CHILDREN  IN  THE   GIANT*S   CASTLE 

THE  children  of  the  place  had  their  own  name  for  the 
severely  grey  brick  house  that  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  overlooking  the  town.  They  called  it  "  The  Giant's 
Castle."  Not  because  it  was  inhabited  by  a  creature 
of  unusual  stature  or  one  of  prodigious  strength,  but 
because  childish  fancy  is  so  prone  to  identify  visible 
aspects  with  those  inspired  by  the  imagination.  The 
house,  profoundly  insistent  in  its  dominance  of  the 
youthful  vision,  was  not  far  removed  from  that  which 
their  tender  intellects  were  pleased  to  consider  a  fitting 
abode  for  certain  stupendous  personages  whose  ac 
quaintance  they  had  made,  as  have  all  other  children 
whose  education  has  not  been  stunted  by  cross  and  un 
feeling  parents, —  through  the  medium  of  fairy  books 
and  weary  nurse  maids'  tales.  Their  small  but  vivid 
imaginations  seized  upon  this  prim  and  unusually 
peaceful  abode  as  a  perfect  illustration  of  what  an 
ogre's  castle  ought  to  be,  and  no  amount  of  persuasion 
in  the  shape  of  realism  could  dull  that  impression  until 
they  outgrew  the  delights  and  fears  of  nursery  liter 
ature. 

The  fact  that  two  very  small  children  lived  in  "  The 
Giant's  Castle,"  quite  without  fear  of  being  devoured 
by  the  master  thereof,  militated  not  a  whit  against  the 
juvenile  fancy  of  Corinth-by-the-Sea,  notwithstanding 
liberal  playground  and  Sunday-school  association. 

The  real  occupants  of  the  house  were  not  taken  into 

account.     If  they  had  been,  there  would  have  been  no 

l 


2  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

excuse  for  the  name.  It  pleased  the  very  young  to 
imagine  that  there  were  other  and  more  horrific  crea 
tures  lurking  behind  the  grey,  weatherstained  walls ;  it 
pleased  them  to  believe  that  each  of  the  square  little 
windows  in  the  cupola  represented  a  peephole  through 
which  a  ferocious  giant  peered  in  quest  of  the  well- 
known  Englishman.  And  so,  they  lived  in  a  delicious 
dread  of  the  ogre  and  yet  romped  with  the  two  small 
denizens  about  the  yard  and  through  the  rooms  — 
(when  opportunity  in  the  shape  of  an  invitation  to 
"  come  up  and  play  "  presented  itself) .  All  of  which 
goes  to  prove  that  nursery  tales  are  terrifying  only 
when  one  has  gone  to  bed  and  is  left  alone  in  the  dark. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  people  who  lived  in  the  big  grey 
house,  from  master  to  servant,  were  as  mortal  as  mortal 
could  be.  To  be  quite  precise,  the  master  himself  was 
a  very  superior  sort  of  mortal,  in  that  he  set  himself  up 
as  an  example  for  all  other  men  to  be  patterned  after. 
That  so  few  of  his  gender  succeeded  in  coming  quite  up 
to  the  standard  was  not  so  much  a  disappointment  to 
him  as  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  them. 

Mr.  Blagden  was  a  most  exemplary  man.  As  to 
virtue  and  morality  he  was  a  giant.  Yet,  while  he  was 
respected,  he  was  not  feared.  No  one  fears  a  truly 
good  man.  If  the  town  in  which  Mr.  Blagden  lived 
had  been  a  trifle  larger  than  it  actually  was  in  the  mat 
ter  of  population  it  is  quite  likely  that  he  would  not 
have  been  respected.  But  it  was  a  small  town,  and  the 
good  are  always  respected  in  small  towns.  The  paths 
are  narrow  there,  and  they  are  very  straight.  It  is  a 
simple  process,  you  might  say,  to  be  moral  and  upright 
when  the  paths  are  so  narrow  that  one  is  obliged  to 
pursue  a  straight  course  or  suffer  the  consequences  of 
a  bump  against  his  neighbour's  wall,  which  invariably  is 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE      8 

built  close  up  to  the  path  and  has  many  eyes  as  well  as 
ears. 

When  I  say  that  everyone  in  Corinth-by-the-Sea 
respected  Mr.  Blagden,  my  assertion  should  be  taken 
with  a  grain  of  salt.  Respect  has  its  degrees,  and 
Corinth  had  its  analysts.  Down  along  the  water-front 
there  were  drinking  places,  and  in  them  were  profane 
philosophers  who  maintained  that  Mr.  Blagden  was  no 
better  than  other  men,  if  one  could  get  beneath  his  skin. 
Unexpectedly,  of  course.  But,  if  you  got  beyond  the 
drinking  places,  adjacent  to  which  the  paths  were  nec 
essarily  crooked  and  not  at  all  restricted,  you  speedily 
would  be  set  straight  again  as  to  Mr.  Blagden's  real 
standing  in  the  community.  The  doubts  were  confined 
to  certain  unregenerate  men  called  sailors,  and  everyone 
knows  that  a  sailor  sees  nothing  good  in  a  landsman. 
He  never  has,  and  he  never  will.  We  may,  therefore, 
take  it  for  granted,  despite  the  windy  opinions  of  those 
vituperative  seadogs,  that  Mr.  Blagden  deserved  the 
high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  the  people  of 
Corinth. 

Besides,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  the  sailormen 
were  not  citizens  of  Corinth,  but  inhabitants  of  the 
Seamen's  Home  situated  in  the  nearby  village  of  Tod- 
rille. 

Todville  was  what  you  might  describe  as  a  suburb  of 
Corinth.  It  pleased  the  Corinthians  to  speak  of  it  as 
a  suburb  when  abroad  in  the  land.  At  home,  in  the 
bosom  of  the  municipality,  they  failed  to  regard  Tod 
ville  in  the  same  charitable  light.  Among  themselves, 
they  looked  upon  the  village  with  considerable  scorn 
and  a  great  deal  of  aversion.  It  was  like  a  growth 
upon  the  smooth,  placid  countenance  of  Corinth. 

There  may  have  been  very  excellent  reason  for  this 


uncharitable  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  smug  citizens 
of  Corinth.  Todville  was  in  the  path  of  expansion. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  village,  which  clung  like  a 
barnacle  to  the  side  of  its  big  sister,  was  in  any  sense 
a  restriction  to  the  commercial  or  material  growth  of 
Corinth.  Not  at  all.  It  stood  in  the  way  of  civic 
pride,  principally  because  it  occupied  the  most  pictur 
esque  spot  of  ground  to  be  found  anywhere  along  the 
coast  for  miles  around.  Inasmuch  as  it  was  within  ten 
minutes'  walk  of  the  most  fashionable  and  exclusive  res 
idence  district  of  Corinth,  and  because  it  was  in  itself 
a  mean  and  humble  witness  to  the  progress  of  the 
splendour  it  halted,  Todville  was  a  despised  spot,  though 
coveted.  With  Todville  and  its  half  hundred  shanties 
out  of  the  way,  Corinth  would  have  been  able  to  spread 
its  gathered  plumes,  and  fly  out  from  its  crowded  nest 
to  settle  down  upon  a  new  and  coveted  stretch  of  Earth, 
there  to  prink  and  pout  with  all  the  arrogance  of  a 
peacock,  while  the  world  passed  by  and  envied. 

But  mean  little  Todville  stood  in  the  way.  The 
charmed  point  that  ran  out  into  the  sea,  lofty  and 
ironic,  with  its  magnificent  view  up  and  down  the  coast, 
from  whose  heights  one  could  stare  in  pity  across  and 
beyond  the  very  summits  of  haughty  Corinth, —  the 
point,  I  say,  was  quite  beyond  the  grasp  of  those  who 
most  desired  its  beauty.  It  belonged  to  a  very  close 
corporation  of  philanthropists  to  whom  the  comfort  of 
antiquated  sailormen  was  of  more  consequence  than  the 
consolation  of  ambitious  dwellers  in  palaces. 

Years  before,  when  Corinth  was  not  purse-proud 
and  lordly,  these  kindly  gentlemen  established  the 
Aged  Seamen's  Home  on  Lord's  Point,  a  deed  in  per 
petuity  guaranteeing  the  dwellers  therein  against  evic 
tion.  Unhappily  for  the  present  generations  in  Cor- 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE      5 

inth,  the  heirs  of  the  original  promoters,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  resided  in  New  York,  Boston  or  Philadel 
phia,  and  they,  holding  Corinth  in  some  disdain,  stub 
bornly  refused  to  entertain  a  proposition  to  join  in  the 
effort  to  set  aside  the  first  grant,  with  the  provision 
that  the  Home  be  transferred  to  another  and  less  im 
posing  section  of  the  coast,  some  distance  removed 
from  Lord's  Point. 

And  so  it  was  that  the  Ancients  remained  almost  un 
der  the  nose, —  or,  more  properly  speaking,  under  the 
eye, —  of  Corinth-by-the-Sea,  secure  in  their  rights  and 
far  from  clannish  in  their  patronage.  It  was  but  a  step 
down  the  beach-road  from  Todville  to  the  water-front 
bar-rooms  of  Corinth.  Like  migratory  ants,  the  An 
cients  swarmed  down  from  the  Point  and  straggled 
back  again  —  physically  unable  to  swarm  —  each  pay 
ing  his  tithe  to  the  municipality  and  taking  away  in 
turn  a  copious  share  of  grog,  from  the  effects  of  which 
he  recovered  with  a  matutinal  fortitude  that  annoyed 
his  more  holy  but  less  hardy  neighbours. 

Particular  attention  is  drawn  to  Horace  Blagden  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  his  own  grandfather  was  one  of 
the  prime  movers  in  establishing  the  now  obnoxious 
Home  on  Lord's  Point.  Moreover,  Horace  Blagden's 
home,  the  grey  house  on  the  hill,  was  so  close  to  the 
line  separating  the  Todville  reservation  from  Corinth 
that  he  could  have  thrown  a  stone  from  his  stable-yard 
well  into  the  preserve,  provided,  of  course,  that  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  throwing  stones.  But  Mr.  Blagden 
never  threw  stones,  either  literally  or  figuratively.  He 
was  content  to  let  other  people  do  that,  relying  on  his 
own  aloofness  to  escape  without  bruises  to  himself. 

No  one  could  afford  to  throw  stones  at  Mr.  Blagden. 
He  was  the  great  man  of  Corinth. 


6  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

After  a  single,  ineffectual  attempt  on  his  own  part 
to  get  possession  of  the  Point  for  himself,  he  settled 
back  and  looked  the  other  way.  Thereafter,  the  town 
of  Corinth  did  all  of  the  talking,  and  voiced  all  of  the 
resentment  toward  the  lowly  village  of  Todville,  seated, 
as  it  were,  almost  under  the  gates  of  Nineveh. 

The  venerable  sea-dogs  from  the  Point,  in  their  liba 
tions,  spoke  freely  of  Horace  Blagden  because  they 
owed  nothing  to  him  since  he  had  tried  to  take  away 
from  them  that  which  his  grandfather  had  given.  They 
were  quite  alone  in  their  privileges.  It  may  be  said,  in 
explanation  of  this  rather  ambiguous  remark,  that 
nearly  everyone  else  in  Corinth  owed  something,  in  one 
way  or  another,  to  the  expansive  Mr.  Blagden. 

He  was  the  president  of  the  private  banking  house 
of  Blagden  &  Co.,  besides  being  the  head  of  such  insti 
tutions  as  the  Street  Railway  Company,  the  Short  Coast 
Steamship  Company,  the  Building  and  Loan  Associa 
tion,  the  Merchant's  Protective  Society,  the  Corinth 
Brick  and  Lime  Works,  the  Country  Club,  the  Town 
Board,  and,  last  but  by  no  means  least,  the  Congre 
gational  Sunday  School.  I  almost  forgot  to  include  the 
Greenvale  Cemetery  Association.  Only  the  most  vio 
lent  politics  kept  him  from  ascending  to  the  Presi 
dency  of  the  Seamen's  Home  Society. 

I  apprehend  that  no  one  who  reads  these  lines  will 
undertake  to  dispute  my  claim  that  Mr.  Blagden  was 
the  most  influential  person  in  Corinth.  I  think  I  have 
established  the  proof  in  these  brief  sentences  that  he  was 
a  very  superior  sort  of  mortal,  if,  indeed,  he  was  not 
a  little  more  than  that. 

While  Mr.  Blagden  was  very  powerful  and  very 
good,  and  very  proud  of  it,  he  was  not  what  one  would 
call  popular.  He  was  not  liked  for  the  enemies  he  had 


made;  although,  if  he  had  an  enemy,  he  did  not  know 
it.  Even  the  venerable  sea-dogs  were  somewhat  punc 
tilious  in  this  respect:  they  did  all  of  their  talking  in 
the  bar-rooms,  and  were  as  close  as  clams  when  they 
got  outside,  guarding  against  the  remote  possibility 
that  he  might,  by  chance,  be  in  the  slums  collecting 
rents.  They  would  not  put  it  above  him.  Still,  they 
fell  with  common  accord  into  the  habit  of  openly  re 
specting  Mr.  Blagden,  reserving  their  private  opinions 
for  public-houses.  Mr.  Blagden's  bank  cashed  their 
pension  vouchers  without  question  and  without  charge. 

I  have  said  there  were  two  small  children  in  the 
so-called  "  Giant's  Castle,"  and  that  the  youngsters  of 
the  upper  social  circles  enjoyed  acquaintance  with  them. 
I  might  have  said  there  were  three,  except  that  a  strange 
respect  for  the  fitness  of  things  restrained  me.  It  is 
necessary,  however,  to  announce  that  there  were  three, 
brother,  sister,  and  cousin,  if  that  is  not  too  involved. 
The  brother  and  sister  were  the  wards  of  Horace  Blag- 
den  ;  their  cousin  was  his  son.  The  small  folk  of  upper 
Corinth  mentioned  the  Midthorne  children  in  one  breath, 
and  Chetwynd  Blagden  in  another.  More  often  than 
otherwise,  he  was  not  mentioned  at  all.  There  was 
joyousness  in  the  breath  that  they  gave  to  the  Mid 
thorne  children,  and  something  akin  to  reluctance  in 
that  which  they  devoted  to  Chetwynd.  If  the  play 
mates  of  Horace  Blagden's  son  were  slow  to  speak  of 
him,  I  feel  that  I  may  be  excused  for  having  neglected 
to  mention  him  in  the  same  sentence  with  his  cousins. 

Chetwynd  was  older  than  they,  by  several  years.  As 
the  only  son  of  Horace  Blagden,  he  may  have  been 
pardoned  for  the  distinct  air  of  superiority  that  he  as 
sumed,  even  as  a  very  small  boy.  His  attitude  toward 
his  cousins  was  patronising  when  it  was  not  inimical. 


8  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  lorded  it  over  them  in  the  most  high-handed  fashion, 
and  his  teaching  justified  him  in  that  particular.  Per 
haps  it  was  not  altogether  his  fault.  Chetwynd  might 
have  been  a  better  boy  and  a  more  generous  one  had  he 
not  been  the  only  son  and  heir  of  Horace  Blagden,  the 
great  man  of  Corinth.  The  perfectly  obvious  fact  that 
other  children  loved  his  cousins  caused  him,  in  his  envy, 
to  set  his  small  hand  against  them,  as  well.  He  was 
privileged  to  treat  them,  one  and  all,  with  the  disdain 
his  position  recommended  to  him.  Was  not  he  the  scion 
of  a  rich  and  highly  respected  family?  Were  not  all 
other  small  creatures  in  Corinth  but  clods  in  his  path? 
Above  all,  were  not  these  cousins  of  his  dependents  on 
the  bounty  of  his  father,  and  barely  tolerated  as  such? 
Why,  then,  was  he  not  better  than  they,  and  why  not 
infinitely  above  those  undiscriminating  infants  who 
elected,  in  their  ignorance,  to  love  them?  In  a  more 
sensitive  soul  than  his,  the  truth  would  have  smarted. 
But  he  was  the  son  of  the  great  man  of  Corinth  and  he 
knew  not  the  law  of  equality.  He  chose  to  be  the  lord, 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not. 

No  child  asked  permission  of  its  mother  to  go  up  to 
Chetwynd's  house;  they  asked  to  go  up  to  the  Mid- 
thornes'.  Therein  lies  the  distinction  and  also  the  dif 
ference. 

This  narrative  will  not  deal  at  length  with  the  chil 
dren  of  "  The  Giant's  Castle."  It  is  the  purpose  of 
the  narrator  to  make  his  hearers  acquainted  with  the 
three  of  them  while  they  were  very  tiny  persons,  and 
then  to  carry  them  over  the  years  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible.  In  the  meantime,  we  may  all  come  to  know 
Horace  Blagden  and  his  wife  better,  besides  getting 
something  of  an  inward  view  of  other  people  who  at 
tended  them  in  the  capacity  of  subjects. 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE      9 

First,  let  us  locate  Corinth-by-the-Sea.  It  is  a  place 
of  some  six  thousand  souls,  three  hours  from  Boston 
by  rail,  and  not  half  so  far  as  the  crow  flies.  It  is  of 
no  importance  which  direction  one  has  to  travel  from 
Boston  to  reach  the  little  seaport,  north  or  south. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  it  is  an  old  town,  and  its  first  families 
of  to-day  were  known  by  the  same  names  two  hundred 
years  ago.  It  is  a  thriving  place,  after  a  slow  and 
dignified  fashion.  There  is  a  port  there,  where  coast 
steamers  call,  and  freighters  put  in;  while  from  its 
little  harbour  a  half  hundred  prosperous  fishing  boats 
fare  forth  in  season  to  reap  a  harvest  from  the  sea. 

It  is  said  that  once  there  was  a  time  when  Corinth 
was  without  a  Blagden,  but  the  period  was  of  short 
duration.  It  seems  that  Horace  Blagden's  great-grand 
father  went  off  to  London  to  reside,  taking  with  him 
his  sons  and  daughters,  his  wife,  his  menservants  and 
his  maidservants,  but  not  his  asses.  They  remained  in 
Corinth.  In  time  the  menservants  and  the  maidserv 
ants  returned,  and  then  the  wife.  The  War  of  the  Rev 
olution  was  over.  She  put  the  old  house  in  order,  and 
then  came  her  husband  and  his  sons  and  daughters,  for 
none  of  them  married  in  the  land  across  the  sea.  Since 
then  there  has  always  been  a  Blagden  in  Corinth. 

Generations  of  them  accumulated  the  fortune  and  the 
prestige  that  served  to  make  Horace  Blagden,  in  his 
day,  the  great  man  of  Corinth.  More  than  this,  he 
was  a  recognised  force  in  the  vast  money  centres  of  the 
land,  for  he  was  rich  even  unto  the  point  of  command 
ing  respect  among  the  richest.  Blagden  &  Co.,  Bank 
ers,  22  Blagden  street,  Corinth,  was  a  powerful  con 
cern.  It  could  lend  money  when  times  were  so  hard 
that  other  institutions  trembled. 

Horace  Blagden,  when  he  came  out  of  Harvard,  went 


-10  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

into  the  bank  with  his  father.  Then  he  set  out,  not  un 
like  the  princes  of  old,  to  find  him  a  wife  from  among 
the  lordly  of  the  land.  He  journeyed  far  and  came  at 
last  to  the  walls  of  a  city  called  Gotham.  He  stormed 
a  castle  there  and  rescued  a  beautiful  maiden  from  the 
ogres  whom  nature  had  constituted  her  father  and 
mother,  just  in  time  to  keep  them  from  delivering  her 
over  to  the  mercy  of  an  English  gentleman  who  owned 
a  coronet  and  a  ducal  palace,  and  nothing  else,  ex 
cept  a  ripping  stud. 

She  was  a  Van  Dykeman. 

Then,  out  of  a  fashionable  school  for  young  ladies, 
came  Horace  Blagden's  only  sister,  Mary.  She  came 
out  prematurely,  it  may  be  added,  to  run  away  with 
and  marry  the  gallant  youth  who  afterward  became 
the  father  of  the  two  little  Midthornes,  cousins  to  Chet- 
wynd  and  wards  of  their  unhappy  mother's  brother. 

It  had  always  been  easy  sailing  for  Horace  Blag- 
den.  He  stepped  into  his  father's  shoes,  so  to  speak, 
when  the  old  gentleman  vacated  them,  and  became  at 
once,  when  he  was  but  little  past  thirty,  the  great  man  of 
Corinth.  He  had  not  married  for  love.  On  the  other 
hand  his  sister  had,  because  she  possessed  the  power  to 
love.  Perhaps  that  is  why  Horace  had  such  placid 
waters  on  which  to  sail,  while  Mary  had  forever  the  roar 
of  breakers  in  her  ears.  Mary  came  to  grief.  She 
loved  intensely  —  and  once  too  often. 

Briefly,  let  me  explain  how  it  came  to  pass  that  her 
children  found  themselves  more  or  less  securely  es 
tablished  in  the  grey  house  on  the  hill,  unloved  but 
tolerated  with  a  resignation  that  even  they,  small  as  they 
were,  could  not  fail  to  appreciate. 

Up  to  the  time  Eric,  the  boy,  was  five,  and  his  sister, 
the  new  Mary,  two,  they  lived  with  their  parents  in  a 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE     11 

thriving  Georgia  town,  the  home  place  of  the  father 
and  his  father  before  him.  Old  Mr.  Blagden  resented 
his  daughter's  marriage  to  the  handsome,  whilom  Mid- 
thorne.  The  young  man  once  had  been  a  visitor  in 
Corinth,  coming  from  Harvard  with  college  mates  for 
the  summer,  and  his  carryings-on  had  quite  thoroughly 
scandalised  the  staid,  puritanical  element  in  the  town, 
although  affording  great  delight  and  encouragement  to 
the  youth  of  the  place.  It  is  said  that  the  spirit  of 
emulation  which  thrived  in  Corinth  long  after  he  went 
his  joyous  way,  following  that  first  and  only  visit,  was 
such  that  if  it  had  been  as  vigorously  directed  in  another 
cause  might  have  produced  nothing  but  saints  among 
the  young  men  of  Corinth.  But  it  took  a  different  di 
rection  altogether.  For  a  time  it  was  feared  that  there 
would  be  no  stopping  the  lads.  They  went  a  dreadful 
pace  and  seemed  proud  of  it.  Old  Mr.  Blagden  took 
hold  upon  Horace  in  good  time.  He  commanded  him 
to  have  nothing  in  common  with  Phil  Midthorne,  pro 
claiming  him  to  be  an  imp  of  perdition.  The  young 
men  had  been  friends.  Horace  made  the  fatal  mistake 
of  snubbing  the  Georgian  on  the  street  one  day,  where 
upon  Midthorne,  after  demanding  an  explanation  and 
getting  it,  proceeded  to  thrash  his  future  brother-in- 
law.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  Horace  despised  him 
from  that  day  forth.  If  Mary  Blagden  was  not  easily 
managed  by  her  father,  Midthorne  found  the  task  by 
no  means  difficult.  She  was  in  love  with  him  —  as  were 
all  the  girls  in  Corinth,  for  that  matter, —  and  his  be 
labouring  of  Horace  increased  rather  than  checked  her 
interest. 

She  never  got  on  well  with  her  brother.  He  bullied 
her  after  a  polite  fashion,  all  his  own,  and,  as  she 
couldn't  retaliate  so  politely,  he  had  all  the  better  of 


12  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

her.  Midthorne,  to  his  own  intense  amazement,  fell 
desperately  in  love  with  the  girl.  But  he  had  to  thrash 
Horace,  just  the  same.  You  can  well  imagine  his  grat 
ification  when  he  found,  almost  at  once,  that  he  went  up 
considerably  in  the  girl's  estimation  after  that  disgrace 
ful  encounter.  She  experienced  a  malicious  delight  in 
standing  up  for  him  against  Horace,  not  only  in  public 
but  in  the  bosom  of  her  own  family.  She  "  ended  up  " 
by  marrying  the  family  bug-bear, —  for  that  is  what 
Midthorne  grew  to  be, —  and  promptly  abandoned  Cor 
inth  forever.  Horace  never  quite  got  it  out  of  his 
head  that  she  married  Phil  in  order  to  annoy  the  family. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  they  made  a  sorry  failure  of  it, 
those  Midthornes.  Phil  was  not  heavily  endowed  with 
this  world's  goods,  nor  was  he  likely  to  acquire  any 
thing.  He  was  a  good  fellow,  a  favourite,  and  it  was  his 
secret  belief  that  the  world  owed  a  living  to  all  good 
fellows. 

Together  they  lived  rather  a  thriftless  life  in  the 
Georgia  town,  neither  of  them  caring  much  whence 
sustenance  came,  just  so  long  as  it  came.  His  people 
were  poor.  He  had  but  little  help  from  them.  Mary> 
were  rich,  but  she  would  not  have  accepted  aid  from  them 
if  she  had  been  starving.  Be  it  recorded,  to  Phil's 
credit,  he  would  no  more  have  taken  from  them  than 
she. 

She  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  thrives  on  the  atten 
tion  of  other  men.  There  was  a-plenty  of  them  in  their 
wide  circle  of  friends  who  were  ready  and  willing  to 
give  it  to  her,  for  she  was  beautiful,  she  was  gay,  she 
was  witty.  It  was  not  long  before  gossip  attached 
itself  to  her.  Soon  after  the  second  child  was  born, 
Mary  Midthorne  began  to  chafe  restlessly  under  the 
restraint  of  a  quiet  home  life  in  the  Southern  town,, 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE      13 

Phil  had  grown  tiresome,  commonplace  in  the  extreme. 
He  was  no  longer  the  dashing  beau  of  her  ante-nuptial 
days.  Instead,  he  was  slowly  drifting  into  a  disgust 
ing  state  of  complacency, —  and  complacency  was  the 
one  condition  that  Mary  despised  more  than  all  others. 
He  loved  his  home  and  his  children ;  he  was  getting  over 
his  love  for  the  world.  They  quarrelled  less  than  had 
been  their  wont.  He  was  getting  so  that  he  would  not 
even  take  the  trouble  to  quarrel  with  her  over  the  at 
tention  other  men  paid  her  —  with  her  permission. 
She  went  farther  and  farther  in  a  spirit  of  defiance  to 
him  —  and  his  complacency.  She  got  over  her  love 
for  him,  but  it  was  like  gall  and  wormwood  to  feel  that 
he  did  not  love  her, —  at  least,  in  the  old,  impassioned 
way.  She  was  still  young,  still  pretty,  still  worth 
while :  she  could  feel. 

One  day  Phil  found  her  lunching  with  a  man  he  had 
particularly  advised  her  to  avoid,  as  there  had  already 
been  talk  about  them.  He  upbraided  her,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  man.  That  night  she  did  not  come  home. 
He  followed  her  to  New  Orleans,  and  from  that  city  to 
Pass  Christian.  Out  on  the  famous  Shell  Road  he  came 
upon  her  and  the  man. 

He  took  her  to  the  county  seat  with  him,  but  he  left 
the  man  lying  by  the  roadside,  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.  The  unwritten  law!  He  was  discharged  by  a 
chivalrous  Mississippi  jury,  and  journeyed  amiably 
back  to  his  home  and  his  babies,  but  without  the  wife 
and  mother.  It  was  a  part  of  his  unwritten  law  that 
she  should  keep  to  the  path  she  had  chosen. 

Of  course,  in  this  grave  emergency,  Horace  Blagden 
and  his  father  might  have  been  expected  to  come  for 
ward  with  a  helping  hand  outstretched  to  the  wayward 
outcast.  But  not  they!  They  were  of  Corinth  and 


14s  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

they  were  great  men  and  impeccable.  They  closed 
their  hearts  and  their  hands  against  her.  She  wore  a 
scarlet  letter. 

Mary  was  not  of  the  kind  that  goes  to  the  gutter. 
The  gutter  is  not  a  comfortable  abiding  place,  nor  is  it 
one  of  luxury.  She  liked  comfort  and  luxury.  She 
went  to  Paris  instead.  Two  years  after  the  tragedy  on 
the  Shell  Road  she  came  to  a  sudden  and  perhaps  timely 
end  through  an  attack  of  fever  while  acting  in  the  ca 
pacity  of  governess  in  the  home  of  a  wealthy  expatri 
ated  New  Yorker,  whose  wife,  for  reasons  never  made 
public,  became  estranged  from  him  after  Mary  had 
been  in  the"  family  a  spare  three  months. 

A  s'cfange  coincidence  followed.  Philip  Midthorne 
died  of  pneumonia  in  less  than  a  month  after  his  wife's 
demise. 

Within  a  year  thereafter  Horace  Blagden,  now  the 
great  man  of  Corinth,  since  the  passing  away  of  his 
father,  arose  to  the  highest  known  point  in  Blagden 
generosity.  He  journeyed  south  with  his  wife  and  laid 
claim  to  the  Midthorne  infants,  proffering  a  home,  and 
an  education,  and  other  advantages  which  their  paternal 
grandparents  could  ill  efford  to  spurn.  The  children 
were  allowed  to  come  north,  to  the  grey  house  on  the 
hill,  to  the  chill  winds  of  Corinth,  so  unlike  the  soft, 
balmy  airs  of  their  birthplace,  so  far  removed  from  the 
warm,  lazy  love  of  those  gentle  Midthornes.  From 
flower-covered,  ruin-racked  mansion  under  a  blue  sky, 
to  bare,  grim,  solidly  prosperous  walls  under  a  sky  that 
was  always  white. 

Corinth  paused  aghast.  Horace  had  done  the  one 
thing  that  no  one  believed  him  capable  of  doing.  He 
had  taken  into  his  own  home,  to  his  own  prim  New 
England  hearth,  the  offspring  of  the  despised  Magda- 


CHILDREN  IN  THE  GIANT'S  CASTLE      15 

len  and  her  red-handed  husband.  The  children  of  an 
adulteress !  The  children  of  a  murderer ! 

Horace  Blagden  kept  his  own  counsel.  He  offered 
no  explanation,  no  excuse  for  his  surprising  act.  He 
was  legally  appointed  guardian  of  the  little  ones;  he 
set  them  down,  with  a  grim  sense  of  his  own  power, 
among  the  unblemished  children  of  Corinth,  and  all  Cor 
inth  was  quiescent.  No  mother  lifted  up  her  voice 
against  the  affront,  no  father  protested.  They  ac 
cepted  the  little  Midthornes,  and  were  amazed  in  them 
selves. 

A  word  in  explanation  of  Horace's  act.  It  was  dis 
covered,  on  the  reading  of  old  Mr.  Blagden's  will,  that 
he  had  not  quite  forgotten  his  lovely,  though  erring 
daughter.  There  was  a  clause  bequeathing  one  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  to  each  of  her  children,  the  money 
to  go  to  them  when  they  had  attained  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  the  bequest,  in  the  interim,  to  be  under  the  control 
of  a  guardian  appointed  by  the  court.  It  was  upon  the 
discovery  of  this  unexpected  clause  that  Horace  Blag- 
den  set  about,  with  some  haste,  to  have  himself  ap 
pointed  guardian.  It  also  occurred  to  him  that  it 
would  be  the  part  of  wisdom  for  him  to  attend  to  the 
bringing  up  of  his  wards,  under  his  own  eye  and  guid 
ance. 

And  so  it  was  that  the  two  little  Midthornes  came  to 
the  grey  house  on  the  hill,  where  the  hearts  were  cold 
and  bitter,  and  where  the  ways  were  hard. 

When  they  came,  blinking  and  wide-eyed,  they  found 
their  cousin,  Chetwynd,  there.  He  was  four  years  older 
than  Eric.  Age  was  not  his  only  asset  in  superiority, 
you  may  be  sure.  From  the  beginning,  Chetwynd 
looked  upon  his  unlucky  cousins  as  interlopers,  as  de 
pendents,  far  beneath  him  in  every  respect.  It  was 


16  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

necessary  for  him  to  pummel  Eric  roundly  on  the  sec 
ond  day  after  his  arrival.  Eric,  small  as  he  was,  openly 
had  resented  the  larger  boy's  airs,  being  a  manly  little 
chap  with  fire  in  his  blood.  For  this,  he  was  kept 
locked  in  a  dark  closet  for  three  hours.  I  mean  Eric, 
of  course.  When  Chetwynd  told  his  mother  that  he 
had  thrashed  his  cousin,  that  excellent  disciplinarian 
promptly  proceeded  to  punish  Eric,  so  that  it  would 
not  happen  again. 

The  little  warm-hearted  Midthornes  made  friends 
quickly  among  the  children  in  the  set  affected  by  the 
Blagdens.  They  were  not  permitted  to  go  outside  this 
circle.  After  the  first  few  weeks  of  uncertainty  in  their 
new  surroundings,  they  rose  to  their  own  level  of  joy- 
ousness.  Not  even  the  overbearing  attitude  of  Chet 
wynd  could  chill  this  natural  warmth  of  manner;  nor 
the  stern,  lean  face  of  their  Uncle  Horace ;  nor  the  am 
plified  repugnance  of  their  Aunt  Rena.  They  were 
happy  because  they  knew  not  how  to  be  otherwise. 

This  was  when  they  were  six  and  three.  They  had 
no  ideals.  They  had  nothing  black  to  remember,  for 
they  only  knew  that  their  father  and  mother  had  gone 
away  for  a  long  time.  They  knew  nothing  of  Cain  and 
Magdalen. 

But  they  were  to  know  before  they  were  many  years 
older. 


CHAPTER  II 

PAKT  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT 

ERIC  was  twelve  years  old  when  his  aunt,  in  a  fit  of  an 
noyance,  brought  on  by  his  throwing  a  stone  at  the 
fleeing  tormentor,  Chetwynd,  told  him  that  his  father 
was  a  murderer,  and  that  he  was  likely  to  become  one 
himself  unless  he  mended  his  ways. 

It  was  the  first  he  knew  of  that  tragic  episode  in  the 
life  of  his  blithe  father.  The  blow  was  so  crushing  that 
he  was  a  long  time  in  coming  to  the  full  realisation  of 
its  force.  He  slunk  off,  dazed,  bewildered,  frightened. 
Chetwynd's  taunting  laugh  pursued  him  as  he  made  his 
way  blindly  through  the  yard  to  the  street  below. 

That  was  but  the  beginning.  They  had  held  it  back 
as  long  as  it  was  in  their  natures  to  do  so.  The  great 
wonder  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  refrained  at  all.  Little 
Mary  was  not  slow  to  observe  the  sudden  change  in  her 
brother.  A  curious  depression,  an  unaccountable  sul- 
lenness  in  his  manner  puzzled  her.  Young  as  she  was, 
she  knew  that  there  was  something  in  his  mind  which  he 
would  not  reveal  to  her. 

He  was  but  twelve.  He  possessed  not  the  power  of 
initiative  in  so  grave,  so  stupendous  a  problem  as  the 
one  which  confronted  him.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  ask  the  terrible  questions.  There  was  no  one  to 
whom  he  could  go.  It  came  over  him  suddenly  that  he 
was  deprived  of  all  that  was  good  and  noble  and  decent 
in  the  world.  In  his  small,  groping  mind,  he  wondered 
if  all  the  children  with  whom  he  played  knew  of  the 
great  secret,  if  all  of  them  knew  that  his  father  had 

IT 


18  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

killed  a  man.  With  furtive  eye  and  a  new  purpose,  he 
watched  their  faces  for  signs  betraying  the  slightest 
sense  of  aversion  toward  him.  He  waited  in  a  great, 
hungry  suspense  for  his  aunt  to  repeat  her  tirade.  He 
waited  for  fresh  taunts  from  Chetwynd  —  he  even  in 
vited  them,  with  a  subtleness  surprising  in  one  so  young. 

But  they  were  frightened,  they  were  wary.  Mrs. 
Blagden,  in  her  haste,  had  spoken  without  consulting 
the  master.  Horace  had  told  her  often  that  when  the 
proper  time  came,  in  his  opinion,  he  would  tell  the  chil 
dren  the  story  of  their  misguided  parents.  She  real 
ised  that  she  had  gone  far  beyond  her  rights  in  robbing 
him  of  the  privilege. 

She  was  not  sorry  for  Eric.  The  haunting,  ever  alert 
question  in  the  boy's  dark  eyes  made  no  impression  on 
her.  She  had  lived  too  long  in  the  grey  house  on  the 
hill  for  that.  Besides,  he  had  thrown  a  stone  at  Chet 
wynd.  And  more  than  that,  the  boys  who  came  up  to 
play  always  asked  for  Eric,  not  Chetwynd.  She  could 
not  understand  it  in  them.  She  secretly  resented  the 
preference. 

Several  days  after  her  unfortunate  slip,  she  went  to 
her  pastor  for  advice.  She  had  not  slept  well.  She 
was  afraid  that  Eric  might  go  to  his  uncle  for  the  truth. 
The  Rev.  Dr.  Presbrey,  of  the  First  Congregational 
Church  of  Corinth,  was  a  good  man^  an  immaculate 
Christian,  a  traveller  who  had  not  even  glanced  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  narrow  path.  He  had  lived  in  Cor 
inth  for  fifty  years,  since  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  once 
had  done  something  notable  in  the  general  Council  at 
Boston,  which,  however,  had  not  been  of  sufficient  mo 
ment  to  abstract  him  from  Corinth. 

He  listened  to  Mrs.  Blagden's  confession,  then  called 
in  his  wife  for  a  three-sided  consultation  in  which  the 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT      19 

clerical  pair  agreed  to  everything  advanced  by  their 
best-paying  parishioner ;  and  later  on,  proposed  that  she 
give  him  until  the  next  Thursday  evening  to  consider 
the  case. 

After  inviting  the  minister  and  his  wife  to  dine  with 
her  on  the  coming  Thursday,  Mrs.  Blagden  felt  some- 
-what  easier  in  her  mind.  She  felt,  somehow,  that  God 
would  step  into  the  breach.  To  the  best  of  her  recol 
lection  He  had  never  failed  her  —  that  is  to  say,  He  had 
not  failed  her  since  she  came  to  Corinth.  Sometimes 
she  looked  back  upon  her  dancing  days  in  New  York, 
and  wondered  if  they  were  real.  They  must  have  been, 
for  she  had  succeeded  in  getting  Horace's  consent  to  let 
Chetwynd  attend  dancing  school.  It  was  for  the  sole 
purpose,  I  believe,  of  making  him  graceful. 

The  old  seaman  who  kept  the  upper-road  gate  to 
the  grounds  belonging  to  the  Home  on  the  Point  was 
Eric's  particular  friend  and  crony.  The  ancient  was 
rather  chary  about  letting  children  inside  the  grounds 
unless  accompanied  by  parents  or  nurses.  He  had 
grown,  however,  to  like  the  manly,  straightforward  little 
Midthorne  boy  and  his  pretty,  baby-faced  sister.  They 
were  always  welcome.  Other  children  hooted  at  him 
when  he  refused  them  admission.  Eric  had  said  to  him 
once,  on  being  turned  away : 

"I'm  sorry,  Major.  Perhaps  if  I  come  again  some 
other  day  you'll  let  me  in  to  watch  the  squirrels.  Good 
day,  sir." 

There  were  three  things  in  this  very  tactful  speech 
that  operated  in  Eric's  favour.  First,  the  politeness  of 
it ;  second,  the  wistfulness  of  it ;  third,  the  grandeur  of 
it.  Jabez  Carr  had  been  a  captain's  mate,  it  is  true, 
but  he  had  never  been  by  way  of  acquiring  such  a  mag 
nificent  title  as  "Major."  It  occurred  to  him  at  once 


20 

that  the  boy  was  not  of  Corinth.  No  Corinth  lad  would 
have  called  him  a  Major.  He  remembered  that  the 
Southland  is  full  of  Majors.  It  was  not  for  a  small 
boy  to  know  that  the  sea  does  not  produce  Majors. 

So  Jabez  said,  relenting  a  bit :  "  You  come  from  the 
South,  don't  you,  sonny?  '* 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Eric.     "  I  was  born  in  Georgia,** 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Jabez. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Blagden's  nephew,  and  this  is  nrjr  sister 
Mary."  Mary  curtseyed  to  the  old  sailorman. 

"  I  love  squirrels,"  said  she. 

"  Come  around  to-morrow,"  said  Jabez  genially. 

"  Thank  you,  Major,"  cried  Eric. 

"  Thank  you,  Ma j  or,"  piped  Mary. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  that  grew  to 
something  akin  to  devotion.  Jabez  experienced  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  at  first  in  subduing  a  natural  inclination 
to  nautical  expletives,  harmless  before  the  mast,  but 
very  much  out  of  place  in  the  presence  of  a  young  per 
son  in  pinafores.  He  was  surprised  to  find  how  readily 
his  verbs  submitted  to  the  new  influences,  although  he 
would  have  been  surprised  to  have  heard  them  described 
as  verbs. 

The  two  children  stole  away  frequently  after  school 
hours,  or  during  the  protracted  summer  vacation,  to 
pay  sly  visits  to  the  delighted  old  mariner.  He  repaid 
them  out  of  the  stores  of  an  unbounded  imagination. 
His  tales  of  the  sea;  his  hair-raising  encounters  with 
pirates,  cannibals,  sharks  and  "  h'ants  " ;  his  countless 
wrecks  and  rescues ;  his  wonderful  experiences  in  snatch 
ing  beauteous  young  ladies  (all  of  whom  were  of  the 
nobility),  from  infamous  buccaneers;  his  life  in  the 
very  island  that  Robinson  Crusoe  had  inhabited ;  his  de 
scents  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  in  quest  of  Davy  Jones ; 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT      £1 

his  —  but  why  go  on  ?  Jabez  possessed  an  imagina 
tion  far  superior  to  mine.  In  fact,  he  never  knew  until 
then  just  how  magnificent  it  was,  and  he  was  very, 
greatly  pleased  with  himself.  He  used  to  lie  awake 
nights,  "  thinking  up  "  lies  for  their  delectation,  and 
then  he  would  have  to  remain  unusually  wide  awake  dur 
ing  the  daytime  to  avoid  contradictions.  Eric  had 
caught  him  up  sharply  in  one  or  two  of  his  earlier 
lapses,  and  he  experienced  a  sense  of  deep  humiliation 
on  finding  himself  so  defective. 

His  gravest  slip  was  in  regard  to  an  almost  simul 
taneous  action  under  Lord  Nelson  at  Trafalgar  and 
Admiral  Farragut  at  Mobile.  He  was  at  once  forced 
into  a  deep  wonder  and  an  uneasy  respect  for  Eric's 
knowledge  of  history.  Moreover,  he  was  one  day  con 
founded  by  the  boy's  damning  declaration  that  he  must 
be  nearly  two  hundred  years  old  to  have  engaged  in  all 
of  the  transactions  mentioned. 

It  was  to  old  Jabez  that  Eric  went  after  waiting  in 
vain  for  a  renewal  of  Mrs.  Blagden's  attack  on  his 
father's  honour.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  that 
the  minister  and  his  wife  were  to  dine  with  them, 
the  boy  decided  to  make  specific  inquiries  of  the  old 
seaman. 

He  went  about  it  nervously,  but  determinedly. 

"  Uncle  Jabe,"  he  began,  after  procuring  the  old 
man's  pipe  and  tobacco  from  the  shelf  in  the  watch- 
house,  "  did  you  know  my  mother?  " 

The  word  Major  had  been  abandoned  sometime  be 
fore  at  Mr.  Carr's  request,  and  "  Uncle  Jabe  "  substi 
tuted.  He  said  he  liked  it  better;  it  wasn't  so  formal. 
Besides,  he  admitted,  in  a  burst  of  truthfulness,  he  had 
never  been  more  than  a  Captain's  mate. 

"  Not  personally,  my  lad,"  replied  Jabez,  between 


22  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

puffs.  "  Jest  as  everyone  knowed  her  hereabouts. 
Kind  of  at  a  distance,  you  might  say." 

"  Did  you  know  my  father  ?  " 

Jabez  looked  up  quickly.  He  had  never  heard  quite 
that  note  in  the  boy's  voice  before.  It  occurred  to  him, 
also,  that  Eric  was  paler  than  usual.  The  old  man 
suddenly  felt  the  need  of  a  cautious  reply.  He  did  his 
best. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  he  was  a  powerful  fine  chap,  too.  I 
used  to  see  a  great  deal  of  him  when  he  lived  here 
abouts." 

"  But  he  didn't  live  here,  Uncle  Jabe." 

Jabez  collected  himself  in  four  fierce  puffs  at  his  pipe. 
"  To  be  sure  he  didn't,"  he  corrected.  "  I  was  thinkin* 
of  another  feller.  A  feller  named  Briggs.  Handsome 
chap  as  used  to  be  second  mate  on  the  Firefly,  a  ship 

I—» 

"  Did  my  father  kill  a  man  ?  " 

Of  course,  old  Jabez  knew  the  story  of  the  ill-fated 
Midthornes.  One  could  not  live  in  Corinth  or  Tod- 
ville  and  be  out  of  touch  with  Blagden  history.  But  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Eric  might  be  ignorant  of 
the  tragedy  in  his  own  small  life. 

Jabez  got  up  from  the  bench  and  violently  hurled 
his  cane  at  a  squirrel  that  frisked  nearby, —  an  un 
heard-of  act  of  cruelty  on  the  part  of  the  keeper  of 
the  gate. 

"  Consarn  them  pests ! "  he  growled  as  he  shuffled 
over  to  recover  the  cane.  The  squirrel,  in  plain  as 
tonishment,  paused  after  retreating  a  rod  or  two,  and 
looked  back  at  its  former  friend.  Whereupon  Jabez, 
hoping  to  gain  time,  hurled  his  cane  once  more.  The 
third  attempt  required  a  most  unnecessary  and  futile 
fling  into  the  lower  branches  of  a  tree  which  might  have 


been  considered  the  private  property  of  the  perplexed 
quadruped.  "  Always  pestering  a  feller,  dang  'em. 
They're  gettin'  so  dog-gone  sassy  lately  that  they  jest 
set  up  and  make  faces  at  me.  Did  you  see  that  little 
cuss  turnin'  up  his  nose  at  me?  If  I  ever  — " 

"  I  want  to  know  all  about  my  father,"  interrupted 
Eric,  a  tense  note  in  his  young  voice.  "  What  did  he 
do?  Tell  me.  My  aunt  says  he  killed  a  man." 

A  bright  thought  struck  the  old  man. 

"  Sure  he  did,  and  a  danged  brave  thing  it  was,  too. 
Didn't  your  aunt  tell  you  how  brave  he  was  ?  " 

"  No.     She  said  he  murdered  a  man  in  cold  blood." 

Jabez  said  something  under  his  breath  and  looked 
about  him  for  another  squirrel, —  or  perhaps  it  was  the 
cat,  for  one  with  very  sharp  ears  might  have  caught  a 
reference  to  that  animal  in  his  muttered  remark. 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!  Did  she  say  that?  She 
must  be  crazy.  Why,  it  was  done  in  a  juel,  fair  and 
square.  Everybody  knows  that." 

"A  jewel?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  juel.  They  fit  a  juel.  With  swords, 
d'ye  see ; —  or  maybe  it  was  pistols.  They  fit  like  two 
Southern  gentlemen  always  fight, —  with  weepins. 
Ain't  you  ever  heerd  about  it?  Well,  well!  I  guess 
you  was  too  young.  Takes  a  mighty  brave  feller  to 
fight  a  juel,  sonny." 

Eric's  eyes  began  to  glow ;  his  lips  trembled  with  the 
sudden  gush  of  relief  that  swept  through  him. 

"  A  duel,  Uncle  Jabe?  "  he  cried.     "  A  real  duel?  " 

"  A  reg'lar  juel,  the  kind  you  read  about  in  books. 
I've  seen  many  of  'em  in  my  time.  Brave  fellers  fightin* 
fer  their  lady  loves.  That's  wot  jour  pa  was  a  doin', — • 
fight  in'  fer  his  true  lady  love." 

"  For  my  mother?  " 


36  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Jabez  felt  that  he  had  come  near  to  overdoing  it. 
He  acquiesced  with  haste. 

"  Of  course.     Who  else  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Why  did  Aunt  Rena  say  he  had  murdered  a  man  ? 
It  isn't  murder  if  you  kill  a  man  in  a  duel.  Everybody 
kno*ws  that." 

"  These  'ere  Corinth  folks  ain't  got  no  idea  of 
chitfoZery,"  explained  Jabez  warmly.  "  They  ain't  like 
you  an*  me.  They  are  the  narriest  people  on  the  face 
of  the  yearth.  Wot  does  your  aunt  know  about  chi- 
valerj?  Nobody  ever  fought  a  juel  fer  her,  did  they? 
I  sh'd  say  not !  Did  your  Uncle  Horace  ever  challenge 
anybody  to  pistols  or  cutlasses  ?  No,  sirree !  It  ain't 
in  'em.  Course  she'd  think  it  was  murder.  S'posin* 
the  other  feller'd  killed  your  pa?  Wot  then?  S'posin' 
they'd  both  hit  each  other  in  a  vital  spot.  Wot  then? 
She'd  call  it  a  double  murder.  It  shows  how  danged 
narry  these  Northerners  are." 

He  had  worked  himself  into  a  pretty  state. 

"  You  said  you  were  from  Maine,"  reminded  Eric, 
his  eyes  dancing.  It  filled  the  old  man's  heart  with 
joy  to  see  the  effect  of  his  ruthless  lying. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  repudiate  the  state  he 
loved  so  well. 

"Who  said  I  was  born  in  Maine?  Who,  I  ask? 
Me  from  Maine?  Well,  I  guess  not.  I  —  I  went  to 
school  in  Maine  for  three  years,  but  that's  all.  I  was 
born  in  Virginny.  Don't  you  ever  say  I  — " 

"  Listen,  Uncle  Jabe,"  interrupted  the  boy  eagerly. 
"  Won't  you  tell  me  all  about  my  father  and  the  duel  ? 
What  was  it  about?  Who  was  the  other  man? 
Where  was  my  mother  when  — " 

"  Stow  that,  now,  my  lad,"  cried  Jabez  Can*.  "  Dont 
ask  so  many  questions.  Why,  shiver  me,  I'm  no  en- 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT      25 

cyclopeedy.  Jest  wait  a  minute  till  I  go  over  and 
shut  that  gate.  Then  I'll  — " 

"  I'll  do  it,"  cried  Eric,  starting  off  eagerly. 

But  Jabez  halted  him  with  an  exclamation  in  which 
dismay  was  barely  disguised  by  gruffness.  He  needed 
a  moment  for  reflection,  and  he  needed  an  inspiration. 

"  Set  down !  I'll  shut  my  own  gate,  sonny.  Wot 
am  I  here  for?  Set  down,  I  say." 

It  seemed  to  the  impatient,  quivering  boy  that  the  old 
man  was  unconscionably  slow  in  performing  the  simple 
feat.  Mr.  Carr's  brow  was  more  deeply  corrugated 
than  ever  as  he  shuffled  back  to  the  watch-house  bench. 
At  first  he  sought  to  change  the  topic  of  conversation, 
then  he  assumed  anger  at  the  boy's  persistence.  Eric's 
white,  eager,  quivering  face  distressed  him.  He  real 
ised,  with  a  pain  in  his  heart,  that  his  little  friend  would 
not  be  denied.  He  was  determined  to  know  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  was  the  thing  that  poor  old  Jabez  was 
striving  to  evade.  Far  back  in  his  mind  lay  the  con 
viction  that  one  day  the  boy  would  know  the  wretched 
story,  but  now  was  not  the  time,  nor  was  he  the  proper 
person  to  make  the  disclosure.  It  does  not  disturb  my 
conscience,  therefore,  to  commend  the  course  taken  by 
Jabez  Carr.  He  lied  nobly,  with  the  best  of  intentions, 
and  his  sin,  though  sure  to  be  found  out,  was  worthy 
of  a  lasting  place  among  the  virtues. 

To  be  sure,  in  his  enthusiasm,  he  overdid  it,  but  why 
hold  that  up  against  him?  He  made  Philip  Midthorne 
out  to  be  a  hero,  the  like  of  whom  never  walked  through 
the  most  exalted  tale  of  chivalry.  His  description  of 
that  well-imagined  combat  on  the  lonely  duelling  ground, 
and  the  circumstances  that  led  up  to  it,  merited  dis 
tinction  in  the  choicest  yellow-back  fiction  of  any  age. 
I  leave  his  story  to  your  imagination.  I  have  my  own 


26  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

to  tell.     The  effect  it  had  on  the  boy  is  all  that  I  care 
to  record. 

When  the  lengthy,  involved  and  highly  coloured  nar 
rative  came  to  an  end  —  which  was  when  the  old  man 
reached  a  stage  where  he  realised  that  he  was  beginning 
to  contradict  himself  because  he  couldn't  remember  just 
what  had  gone  before, —  the  boy  was  fairly  squirming 
with  excitement,  and  pride,  and  glory  in  his  heroic 
father.  Jabez  left  nothing  to  the  imagination,  albeit 
he  uttered  not  a  single  word  of  the  truth. 

Later  on,  the  old  man  watched  his  young  friend 
scudding  up  the  hill  toward  the  gate  in  the  rear  wall 
surrounding  the  Blagden  garden  and  stable-yard.  He 
was  very  thoughtful,  and  he  shook  his  grizzled  head  in 
deep  perplexity. 

"  He'll  find  out  the  truth  some  day,  poor  lad,"  mused 
he,  "  and  all  my  lyin*  will  go  for  naught.  Mebby 
'twould  been  better  to  have  told  him  the  truth.  What 
a  fine  little  chap  he  is." 

Eric  encountered  Chetwynd  in  the  grape  arbour. 
The  older  boy  was  snugly  ensconced  in  a  remote  nook, 
where  he  spent  much  of  his  leisure  time  reading,  far 
from  the  questioning  eyes  of  his  parents,  and  quite  out 
of  view  from  any  of  the  windows  in  the  house  itself. 
He  chose  this  spot  because  it  was  secluded,  and  he 
denied  either  of  his  cousins  the  right  to  approach  within 
twenty  paces  of  his  lair.  Two  or  three  severe  kick-' 
ings  had  convinced  Eric  that  discretion  was  better  than 
valour.  He  kept  his  distance  thereafter,  but  down  in 
his  heart  he  cherished  the  hope  that  there  would  come 
a  time  when  he  would  be  big  enough  to  drive  the  proud 
bully  from  his  paradise.  You  may  be  sure  that  Chet- 
wynd's  nook  w^s  the  shadiest,  the  coolest  and  altogether 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT      27 

the  most  desirable  in  the  garden.  He  chose  it  with 
considerable  perception.  It  was  there  that  ostensibly 
he  pursued  the  course  in  reading  his  father  had  laid 
down  for  him.  If  you  had  approached  cautiously  from 
behind,  you  would  have  observed  that  a  flashy,  blood- 
stirring  paper  back  "  library  "  of  the  five  and  ten  cent 
variety  reposed  atop  the  obscured  pages  of  Virgil. 
Chetwynd  managed,  in  some  way,  to  read  at  least  one 
of  these  demoralising  pamphlets  every  day.  His  mind 
was  soaked  with  the  vicious  performances  of  certain 
highwaymen,  road-agents,  detectives,  and  the  more  ex 
alted  but  scarcely  less  approvable  virtues  of  youthful 
heroes. 

His  doting  parents  would  have  been  shocked  beyond 
measure  could  they  have  known  of  this  unexampled 
straying. 

Eric  usually  gave  the  sacred  spot  a  wide  berth.  To 
day,  full  of  exaltation,  he  boldly  invaded  the  nook. 

*'  Get  out  of  this ! "  roared  Chetwynd,  scarcely  be 
lieving  his  eyes.  He  lowered  his  feet  from  their  perch 
on  the  trellis,  and  was  almost  prepared  to  rise  from  the 
small  of  his  back,  on  which  he  was  sitting. 

The  ugly  scowl  did  not  daunt  the  trespasser.  He 
came  up  quite  close  to  his  cousin. 

"  You  can  kick  me  if  you  want  to,  but  I  mean  to 
tell — "  he  began. 

Chetwynd  interrupted  him  with  a  mild  oath.  A 
moment  later  he  was  standing  over  the  smaller  boy, 
his  arm  drawn  back  threateningly. 

"  If  you  tell  father  what  I've  been  reading,  I'll  break 
your  neck,"  he  hissed.  He  was  pale,  not  with  anger, 
but  at  the  thought  of  the  information  going  to  his 
father. 


28  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  tattle-tale,"  cried  Eric.  "You 
know  better  than  that.  You're  a  tell-tale  yourself,  but 
I'm  not.  You  — M 

"  Don't  you  call  me  a  tell-tale !  " 

"  Well,  you  are.  You  tell  on  me  to  Aunt  every  time 
I  do  anything,  and  you  tell  her  lots  of  times  that  I  did 
the  things  that  you  did  yourself,  so's  I'll  get  punished. 
She  believes  you,  and  I  get  it  good  and  hard,  too. 
But  I  never  squeal  on  you.  You  know  I  don't." 

"  You  don't  dare  to,"  proclaimed  Chetwynd.  "  You 
know  what  I'd  do  to  you." 

"  Why  don't  you  pick  on  Johnny  Metcalf  or  Roy 
Gray?  You're  afraid  of  'em.  They're  as  big  as  you 
are,  and  they'd  just  lick  you  — " 

"  I'll  give  you  a  smash  in  the  eye,  first  thing  you 
know,"  growled  Chetwynd.  Still  his  arm  was  with 
held. 

"  Go  on  and  do  it !  Go  on !  "  cried  the  reckless  Eric. 
"  You're  a  coward,  that's  what  you  are.  You  won't 
fight  fair.  You  know  I  can't  lick  you." 

"  For  two  cents,  I'd  — " 

"  I'll  fight  you  with  '  dornicks  '  at  twenty  paces," 
said  Eric. 

Chetwynd  laughed  derisively  as  he  shoved  the  boy 
away  from  him. 

'*  Next  thing  you'll  be  challenging  me  to  a  duel,"  he 
guffawed  meaningly. 

Eric  was  quivering  with  the  news  that  was  to  be  his 
justification. 

"  Aunt  Rena  said  my  father  was  a  murderer,"  he 
gulped.  "  Well,  it  was  a  lie." 

Chetwynd  stared. 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  her  you  called  her  a  liar,"  he  said. 
«  Then  you'll  catch  hell." 


"  Oh,  if  Uncle  Horace  heard  you  use  that  word," 
cried  Eric,  forgetting  his  purpose  in  the  delight  of 
anticipation.  "  He'd  tan  you, —  gee,  but  he'd  tan  you." 

"  I'd  show  him  if  he  tried  it,"  blustered  Chetwynd. 
"  I  won't  let  any  man  lick  me,  I  don't  care  who  he  is." 

Eric  returned  to  his  original  attack.  "  I  don't  care 
if  you  do  tell  Aunt  Rena.  She  knows  it  ain't  true. 
He  killed  his  man  in  a  duel,  a  fair  and  square  duel. 
It  was  according  to  the  code,  all  good  and  proper. 
She  has  no  business  saying  it  was  a  murder." 

"  Well,  it  was  murder,"  cried  Chetwynd  angrily. 
"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

Eric  went  on,  rashly.  "  I'd  like  to  see  what  your 
father'd  do  if  he  had  to  fight  a  duel.  He'd  run,  he'd 
back  out.  He  wouldn't  stand  up  to  anybody  with 
pistols.  My  father  was  a  brave  man.  He  met  his 
man  and  — " 

"  Met  him  ?  "  sneered  Chetwynd,  catching  his  breath. 
"  Yes,  he  did !  He  met  him  in  the  dark  and  he  shot  him 
in  the  back.  That's  the  kind  of  a  man  he  was  —  and, 
darn  you,  that's  just  the  kind  of  a  man  you'll  be. 
Everybody  says  so.  My  father  says  it's  in  the  blood.'* 

"  It's  a  lie !     It's  a  lie !  "  screamed  Eric. 

Chetwynd  threw  discretion  to  the  winds.  He  had 
been  waiting  for  the  opportunity  to  hurt  this  proud 
cousin,  whom  everyone  else  liked  so  well. 

"  And  say,  while  you're  talking  about  my  mother, 
let's  talk  about  yours.  Do  you  know  what  she  was? 
Say,  do  you?  Do  you  know  what  she  did?  She  was  a 
bad  woman.  She  was  a  woman  like  —  well,  you  know 
what  French  Fanny  is  down  in  Fourth  street,  don't 
you?  She  keeps  a  house  of  ill- fame.  Nobody  speaks 
to  her,  do  they?  Ain't  every  girl  in  town  warned 
against  being  the  kind  of  woman  she  is?  Well,  Aunt 


30  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mary  was  like  French  Fanny.  She  was  a  prostitute. 
She  — " 

Eric  was  upon  him  like  a  wildcat,  pummelling, 
scratching  and  kicking.  The  attack  was  so  sudden  that 
the  older  boy  fell  back  before  it,  shouting  in  mingled 
rage  and  dismay.  The  smaller  boy,  blinded  by  fury, 
struck  wildly  and  without  much  effect,  but  Chetwynd 
would  have  fled  from  his  attack  if  it  had  been  possible. 
The  trellis  barred  the  way  to  escape.  He  was  com 
pelled  to  stand  and  defend.  Fortune  favoured  him  in 
an  unexpected  manner.  Eric  stumbled  and  fell  to  his 
knees.  Before  he  could  recover,  the  larger  boy  was 
upon  him,  bearing  him  to  the  ground. 

Despite  his  most  valiant  efforts,  Eric  could  not 
throw  him  off.  He  was  forced  to  endure  a  vicious 
pummelling.  His  nose,  his  lips  and  an  ear  were  soon 
bleeding.  Tears  of  rage  and  chagrin  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  He  was  powerless,  but  his  cousin  was  relent 
less. 

Between  blows,  Chetwynd  ground  out  the  bitterest 
taunts  he  could  invent.  There  was  nothing  too  vile 
for  him  to  apply  to  the  father  and  the  mother  of  his 
helpless  victim. 

"  That's  what  she  was ! "  he  kept  on  repeating. 
"  And  that's  what  your  sister  will  be,  too.  She'll  go 
to  the  devil,  just  as  Aunt  Mary  did.  Shut  your  mouth, 
blame  you!  There!  That'll  shut  it,  I  guess.  And 
you'll  be  as  dirty  low  as  your  father  was,  too.  Every 
body  says  so.  They're  just  waiting  to  see  when  it 
crops  out.  I've  heard  'em  say  so.  They  pray  for  you. 
Did  you  know  that?  They  pray  for  you  and  Mary. 
They  have  Mr.  Presbrey  pray  for  you,  too.  He  does 
it  every  Sunday.  But  you'll  both  go  to  the  gutter. 
Prayers  won't  help,  you  can  bet  on  that.  You're  go- 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT   31 

ing  to  shoot  somebody  in  the  back  some  day  and  Mary's 
going  to  be  a  —  Ouch!  Oh,  you  will,  will  you?  Take 
that,  and  that!  I  guess  father  ought  to  know.  He's 
your  mother's  brother.  If  he  hasn't  a  good  word  for 
her,  I'd  like  to  know  who  has.  But  what  does  he  say 
about  her?  Mother  tells  me  all  about  it.  She  don't 
lie.  She  tells  the  truth." 

He  would  have  gone  on  until  exhausted,  perhaps, 
had  not  intervention  occurred  to  release  the  panting, 
beaten  boy.  Little  Mary  had  been  attracted  by  sounds 
of  the  conflict.  A  glance  had  shown  her  the  situation. 
She  ran  screaming  to  the  house,  alarming  her  aunt. 
Mrs.  Blagden  lost  no  time  in  going  to  the  rescue  of  her 
son! 

She  separated  them  and  dragged  Eric  to  his  feet, 
shaking  him  violently  by  the  collar.  Then  she  led  him 
by  the  ear  to  the  house,  haranguing  him  every  step  of 
the  way,  while  Chetwynd  followed  close  behind  bawling 
out  triumphantly  that  Eric  had  called  her  a  liar,  and  a 
thief,  and  a  bad  woman. 

The  victim  was  thrust  unceremoniously  into  a  dark 
closet,  without  being  allowed  to  utter  a  word  in  his  own 
defence. 

"  Your  uncle  shall  attend  to  you  when  he  comes 
home  from  the  bank,  young  man,"  said  Aunt  Rena  as 
she  locked  the  door.  Then  she  went  downstairs  and 
made  the  exasperating  mistake  of  asking  Chetwynd  how  ; 
badly  the  little  ruffian  had  injured  him.  Her  son  flung 
himself  from  the  room,  much  to  her  dismay.  If  she  had 
been  listening  closely,  she  might  have  heard  herself  al 
luded  to  as  a  "  darned  old  fool  "  by  her  precious  off 
spring. 

For  three  bleak,  unhappy  hours  the  small  boy  who  is 
to  become  the  hero  of  this  narrative,  remained  in  the 


32  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

darkened,  windowless  closet,  from  which  there  was  no 
escape.  He  chafed  for  a  long  time  under  the  rank  in 
justice  that  put  him  there.  His  little  heart  was  full  of 
the  bitterest  hatred  for  these  unfair  inquisitors ;  his  soul 
writhed  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  humiliation,  out  of 
which  sprung  the  ever-recurring  hope  that  he  might 
die  there  in  his  prison,  if  only  to  make  his  aunt  feel 
that  she  had  been  the  cause  of  his  death.  He  was  not 
old  enough  to  be  a  philosopher;  he  could  not  see  be 
yond  the  present  indignity.  There  was  no  hope  ahead, 
so  far  as  he  could  see.  His  whole  life  seemed  cramped 
and  squeezed  into  this  narrow,  cruel  hour  or  two  of 
despair.  He  was  crushed,  but  there  was  a  dogged  fury 
in  his  soul  that  would  not  be  conquered.  Chetwynd 
had  reviled  his  mother.  He  could  not  get  over  that. 
He  could  not  at  once  grasp  the  full  force  of  the  charges 
brought  against  her,  but  there  was  no  doubt  in  his 
mind  that  French  Fanny  was  the  lowest  of  all  God's 
creatures.  To  compare  his  dear,  pretty  mother  to  that 
dreadful  woman  was  the  ugliest  thought  that  could  come 
into  his  mind.  And  yet  Chetwynd  had  said  she  was  as 
bad  as  French  Fanny.  And  he  had  said,  too,  that 
little  Mary  would  grow  up  to  be  the  same  kind  of 
woman.  The  poor  boy  threw  himself  on  the  floor  of 
his  cell,  and  wept  bitter  tears,  sobbing  himself  into  a 
slumber  from  which  he  was  aroused  by  the  faint  sound 
of  tapping  at  his  door. 

The  scared,  timid  voice  of  his  little  sister  came  to 
him  through  the  keyhole.  He  commanded  her  to  go 
away,  to  leave  him  alone  to  die.  Then  they  would  all 
be  sorry.  Besides,  he  added,  quick  to  recognise  a  peril 
that  might  befall  her,  she  would  get  a  good  scolding  or 
worse  if  their  aunt  caught  her  communicating  with 
him.  The  little  girl  stood  her  ground  for  a  few  mo- 


PART  OF  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT   33 

ments  and  then  went  away.  He  was  better  for  her 
visit,  however.  He  was  not  alone  in  the  world  and 
friendless,  after  all.  Mary  was  his,  and  he  belonged  to 
her.  He  would  live  for  her  that  he  might  in  the  end 
die  for  her. 

It  was  then  that  his  volatile,  imaginative  brain  began 
to  build  romance  out  of  his  predicament.  He  imagined 
himself  confined  in  a  dungeon  by  unscrupulous  con 
spirators,  from  whose  clutches  only  the  most  heroic 
actions,  the  most  glorious  stratagems  would  serve  to 
release  him.  In  the  midst  of  these  exalted  reflections, 
his  aunt  came  to  the  door  and  unlocked  it,  bidding  him 
to  come  forth  to  his  supper.  It  was  not  a  romantic 
way  out  of  his  difficulties,  but  it  was  a  pleasing  sum 
mons,  after  all.  His  vengeance  could  wait  —  till  after 
supper,  at  least. 

Mrs.  Blagden  uttered  a  short  gasp  of  dismay  on 
catching  a  glimpse  of  his  dirty,  blood-stained  face. 

"  Go  and  wash  your  face  at  once,"  she  commanded. 
"  You  are  a  perfect  fright.  Why  can't  you  keep  your 
self  clean  like  Chetwynd?  Go  at  once  and  get  that 
horrid  blood  off  your  face !  Not  a  mouthful  do  you  get 
until  you  are  perfectly  clean.  Brush  your  clothes, 
too.  Don't  let  your  uncle  see  you  looking  like  this. 
He  would  be  shocked." 

Here  was  fresh  indignity,  a  new  injustice.  The  boy 
looked  squarely  into  his  aunt's  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
she  must  have  felt  the  unspoken  reproach  and  amaze 
ment  in  his  glance. 

"  I  don't  want  any  supper,"  said  Eric  surlily. 

"  Wash  your  face,  do  you  hear  me  ?  Your  uncle  will 
attend  to  you  later  on.  My  goodness,  to  think  that  a 
child  as  young  as  you  are  should  have  it  in  his  heart 
to  shed  blood,  wantonly,  cruelly,  as  you  have  done !  " 


34  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Eric  flared  up.  "  Oh,  it's  not  Chetty's  blood.  It's 
all  my  own." 

"  Your  own?  Why,  you  little  rascal,  you  know  you 
cut  Chetwynd  with  your  knife.  He  says  so.  There's 
a  horrid  cut  on  one  of  his  legs.  Where  is  your  knife? 
Give  it  to  me  at  once !  Heaven  knows  what  we  are  to  do 
with  you.  You  will  kill  somebody,  mark  my  words." 

To  her  surprise,  Eric  indulged  in  a  broad,  ecstatic 
grin.  He  was  gratified  to  learn  that  one  of  his  kicks 
had  brought  the  blood  from  Chetwynd's  lean  shin. 

"  You  wicked  thing ! "  cried  his  aunt,  aghast  in  the 
face  of  what  she  was  pleased  to  regard  as  malevolent 
glee. 

"  He  lied,  Aunt  Rena,  if  he  said  I  pulled  a  knife  on 
him,"  cried  the  boy  hotly.  "  I  never  — " 

"  Chetwynd  does  not  lie,"  she  interrupted.  "  Make 
yourself  presentable  at  once.  Pastor  Presbrey  will 
speak  to  you  after  supper.  Heaven  knows  that  some 
thing  must  be  done." 

He  and  little  Mary  ate  their  supper  in  the  pantry, 
while  Chetwynd,  nursing  a  throbbing  shin-bone,  sat 
beside  the  minister  at  table  and  talked  of  his  afternoon 
with  Virgil. 

To  illustrate  the  contrariness  of  human  nature,  the 
scion  of  the  house  of  Blagden,  down  in  his  heart,  en 
vied  his  late  adversary  the  joy  of  eating  in  the  butler's 
pantry,  while  he  was  obliged  to  sit  up  and  be  agreeable 
to  the  sanctimonious  toady  in  the  long  frock  coat  and 
immaculate  cravat.  That  is  to  say,  he  envied  him  until 
the  conversation  of  his  elders  drifted  to  the  recalci 
trant  lad  in  the  pantry.  Then  he  was  glad  that  he  was 
there.  Moreover,  when  the  meal  was  over,  and  the 
clerical  appetite  satisfied  for  the  time  being,  he  an 
nounced  to  his  mother  that  he  was  going  to  stay  in  the 


PART  OE  THE  TRUTH  COMES  OUT   35 

library  and  hear  what  Mr.  Presbrey  and  his  father  had 
to  say  to  Eric  and  Mary  when  they  were  haled  up  before 
them  for  the  judgment  that  was  to  be  passed  upon  them 
before  they;  went  to  bed  that  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

GALL   BBOTH 

THE  Reverend  Mr.  Presbrey  will  bear  watching  as  this 
tale  progresses.  Not  in  the  common,  accepted  sense  of 
the  term,  perhaps, —  not  as  you  might  keep  your  eye  on 
a  chap  who  has  been  suspected  of  taking  a  purse,  or 
even  a  drink, —  but  for  the  sake  of  a  certain  propin 
quity  he  creates  for  himself  in  relation  to  the  affairs  of 
other  people, 

It  has  been  said  that  he  was  a  very  good  man.  It 
is  quite  true.  He  had  no  children.  If  you  can  im 
agine  a  man  so  good  as  all  that,  you  may  reach  some 
sort  of  a  conclusion  as  to  Mr.  Presbrey's  spirituality.  As 
a  rule,  ministers  of  the  gospel  surround  themselves  with 
more  children  than  their  means  would  appear  to  encour 
age,  but  there  is  so  much  satisfaction  in  having  them 
that  even  impoverished  clergymen  can  afford  to  be 
prodigal.  They  call  them  products  of  God  and  set 
them  down  in  their  profit  and  loss  column  as  riches  that 
gold  cannot  replace.  You've  got  to  give  credit  to  the 
clergy  for  this,  even  though  you  don't  consider  it  worth 
while  to  go  to  church  and  listen  to  their  views  on  the 
rearing  of  your  own  offspring. 

Mr.  Presbrey  rarely  came  closer  to  the  present  than 
the  reign  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  unless  it  were  to  tell  his 
listeners  that  the  drink  evil  is  still  a  menace  to  society, 
and  that  hell,  which  seems  to  be  of  all  times,  is  a  very 
dreadful  place.  To  these,  and  other  profundities  of 
quaint  originality,  he  owed  his  exalted  position  in 

Corinth. 

36 


GALL  BROTH  37 

He  looked  with  horror  upon  the  cheery  priests  at  St. 
Ann's  Catholic  church  down  the  street:  they  took  life 
too  casually,  and  they  smoked  cigars,  said  he  to  him 
self.  He  drew  his  sombre  skirts  clear  of  the  shouting 
Methodist  who  preached  in  the  First  M.  E.  church,  and 
disdained  the  worthy  gentleman  who  held  forth  in  the 
Baptist  sanctuary  —  where  the  steeple-bell  was  cracked 
because  it  failed  to  come  through  the  Revolutionary 
War  unscathed.  The  rather  progressive  pastor  of  the 
Second  Congregational  Church,  a  youngish  man  from 
the  middle  west,  came  in  for  no  end  of  pity  and  com 
miseration.  As  for  the  Free  Methodists,  the  Unitarians 
and  the  Episcopalians,  they  were  beneath  his  notice. 
There  was  but  one  God,  his  God;  but  one  church,  his 
church ;  but  one  creed,  his  creed.  Thank  God,  there  are 
but  few  Presbreys  left  in  the  land ! 

I  make  no  doubt  he  would  have  resented  the  imputa 
tion  that  he  was  narrow,  that  he  was  remote.  He  took 
a  very  broad  view  of  himself,  and  he  was  satisfied  with 
what  he  saw. 

His  wife  was  satisfied,  as  well,  which  was  consoling. 
Next  to  his  Maker,  Mr.  Presbrey  worshipped  his  wife ; 
next  to  Mr.  Presbrey,  she  made  room  for  God.  It  was 
what  you  might  have  called  a  close  corporation,  the 
Presbreys  and  God. 

Just  outside  the  little  private  fold  were  the  Blag- 
dens.  After  them,  the  congregation  of  the  First  Con 
gregational  Church  of  Corinth. 

It  already  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Presbrey  employed 
himself  in  the  pleasant  occupation  of  developing  other 
people's  children.  His  wife,  it  may  be  added,  also  took 
a  hand  in  such  affairs.  She  had  never  cared  to  have 
children  of  her  own.  This,  perhaps,  was  a  fortunate 
thing  for  Mr.  Presbrey's  peace  of  mind.  It  would  have 


38  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

been  most  distressing,  even  dismaying,  if  she  had  wanted 
them. 

Again,  I  repeat,  Mr.  Presbrey  was  a  very  good  man. 
He  will  bear  watching. 

He  was  tall,  spare,  fifty  and  ascetic.  You  could  not 
have  mistaken  his  long,  thin,  aquiline  nose  for  the  prop 
erty  of  any  but  a  saintly  man,  nor  could  his  closely 
cropped  side  whiskers,  extending  below  the  lobes  of  the 
ears,  have  belonged  to  a  less  exalted  personality.  Some 
times  we  confuse  our  own  less  careful  ministers  with 
overly  importunate  lightning-rod  agents  or  insurance  so 
licitors, —  once  in  awhile,  to  our  sorrow,  with  book 
agents, —  but  we  would  not  have  taken  Mr.  Presbrey, 
by  any  conceivable  chance,  for  anything  but  what  he 
was.  And  yet,  despite  an  outward  appearance  of  rigid 
self-government  and  exactitude,  he  possessed  a  certain 
form  of  weakness  that  is  apparent  in  most  of  us,  no 
matter  how  strong-minded  we  pretend  to  be.  He  was 
not  above  listening  to  the  advice  and  counsel  of  his  wife. 
I  betray  a  secret,  of  course,  when  I  say  that  Mr.  Pres 
brey  first  took  his  burthens  to  his  wife,  and  then  to  God. 
I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  she  had  pooh- 
poohed  them  as  trifles,  he  would  not  have  included  them 
in  his  prayers,  but  it  is  quite  certain  that  he  would  have 
gone  about  it  perfunctorily. 

If  Mrs.  Presbrey  had  searched  the  world  over  for  a 
mate,  she  could  not  have  succeeded  in  finding  one  more 
compatible  than  he.  I  do  not  pretend  to  know  how  far 
afield  she  searched,  nor  how  long  it  was  before  she  came 
to  him,  but  it  is  reasonable  to  suspect  that  she  had  made 
some  endeavour.  She  was  forty  when  he  married  her 
and  she  had  led  the  Bible  class  in  his  Sunday  school 
for  at  least  ten  years  before  the  miracle  came  to  pass. 


GALL  BROTH  39 

Corinth  was  her  birthplace,  so,  I  fancy,  she  did  not  find 
it  necessary  to  venture  far  from  home. 

She  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  That  is  why 
she  received  the  belated  blessing  in  the  shape  of  Mr. 
Presbrey.  For  fifteen  long  years  she  had  prayed  with 
him  —  and  for  him.  God's  blessing,  as  well  as  his 
wrath,  is  often  delayed  beyond  all  understanding,  but 
if  we  accept  Mrs.  Presbrey's  spiritual  persistency  as  an 
example,  our  minds  may  be  at  rest  as  to  the  virtue  of 
the  admonition :  "  Ask  and  ye  shall  receive." 

It  is  only  natural  to  suppose  that  the  excellent  Pres- 
breys  had  gone  into  the  problem  of  the  Midthorne  chil 
dren  quite  thoroughly  before  presenting  themselves  at 
the  house  on  the  hill,  some  fifteen  minutes  prior  to  the 
Blagdens'  dinner  hour.  Mrs.  Presbrey  made  it  a  point 
never  to  be  late  for  anything.  She  avoided  all  possi 
bility  of  such  an  occurrence  by  being  punctually  ahead 
of  time.  So,  when  they  sat  down  to  table  at  seven 
o'clock,  they  were  prepared  to  give  all  the  Christian  ad 
vice  that  the  occasion  and  its  exigencies  demanded. 

Mr.  Presbrey  looked  askance  at  Chetwynd  while  the 
dessert  was  being  served.  It  was  what  is  commonly 
called  "  float."  Mrs.  Blagden,  intercepting  the  look, 
directed  a  questioning  glance  at  her  husband.  Horace 
looked  at  the  crystal  chandelier  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said : 

"  Run  along  now,  Chetwynd." 

"  I  want  some  more  float,"  said  Chetwynd,  who  knew 
they  were  holding  something  back. 

Mrs.  Presbrey  sighed.  Then  she  asked,  casually 
enough : 

"  Have  your  sister's  children  gone  to  bed?  " 

Horace  cringed.     He  always  cringed  when  they  were 


40  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

spoken  of  as  his  sister's  children.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that  it  would  have  sounded  awkward  if  one  asked: 
"  How  are  Mr.  Midthorne's  children  ?  "  or  "  Are  the  late 
Mr.  Midthorne's  children  coming  to  Sunday  school?  " 
The  worst  of  it  was,  he  could  not  deny  that  they  were 
his  sister's  children. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Presbrey,  they  have  not,"  he  replied.  He 
pondered  for  a  moment.  Then  he  passed  his  smooth, 
white  hand  across  his  chin.  "  That  reminds  me,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about  them,  Presbrey.  The  time  has 
come  —  er  —  ahem !  —  when  it  seems  advisable  for  us 
to  acquaint  them  with  the  unhappy  conditions  surround 
ing  their  babyhood.  They  should  not  be  allowed  to 
grow  up  in  utter  ignorance  of  —  er  —  ahem !  —  certain 
hereditary  influences.  They  must  be  prepared,  if  it  is 
in  our  power  to  prepare  them,  for  the  perils  of  that 
miserable  heritage.  We  do  not  want  them  to  go  on 
unconsciously  developing  the  —  the  —  er, —  what  shall 
I  say?  —  the  faults  of  their  parents." 

Mr.  Presbrey's  blue  eyes  lighted  up. 

"  My  prayers  are  never  complete  without  an  earnest 
plea  in  behalf  of  those  dear  children,"  he  said.  If  he 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  look,  he  might  have  seen  a  cer 
tain  tightening  of  the  lines  about  Mrs.  Blagden's  lips. 
Mrs.  Presbrey,  more  observing,  saw  the  change  in  her 
hostess's  expression.  She  hastened  to  apologise  for  the 
careless  use  of  the  adjective. 

"  All  children  are  dears,"  she  explained. 

"  *  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me  '  " —  began 
Mr.  Presbrey  absently. 

Chetwynd  snickered.  A  warm  red  surged  to  the 
speaker's  cheeks  and  brow,  causing  his  wife  to  start  with 
amazement.  She  had  not  known  there  was  so  much 
blood  in  him. 


GALL  BROTH  41 

"  What  we  should  do,"  remarked  Horace  blandly,  "  is 
this:  we  should  put  the  situation  clearly  to  Eric.  He 
is  twelve  years  old  and  bright  as  a  dollar.  No  one  can 
gainsay  that.  I  daresay  Mary  would  not  be  sufficiently 
impressed  at  her  present  age.  Perhaps  we'd  better 
wait  in  her  case  — " 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  save  both  of  'em,"  put  in 
Chetwynd  rashly. 

"  Chetwynd ! "  exclaimed  his  father  and  mother  in 
unison. 

"  There  is  a  saying,"  added  Mr.  Presbrey,  in  whom 
resentment  still  rankled,  "  that  children  should  be  seen, 
or  something  to  that  effect."  It  was  a  very  daring  re 
mark  for  him  to  make. 

"  Well,  you  have  to  take  chances  on  hearing  them  if 
you  suffer  'em  to  come  unto  you,"  said  Chetwynd,  secure 
in  his  domain. 

"  Chetwynd  is  so  remarkably  quickwitted,  don't  you 
think  so,  Mrs.  Presbrey  ?  "  cried  his  mother  admiringly. 
"  That  was  a  very  smart  rejoinder." 

"  Very,"  said  Mrs.  Presbrey,  with  unction. 

"  Chetwynd,  you  will  oblige  me  by  holding  your 
tongue,"  said  Mr.  Blagden  quite  severely.  When  he 
spoke  in  that  tone  of  voice,  Chetwynd  always  subsided. 
"  As  I  was  saying,  Presbrey,  we  may  as  well  defer  in 
the  case  of  Mary,  though  God  knows  I  do  not  want  to 
run  the  risk  of  being  too  late." 

"  I  fancy  no  harm  can  come  to  her  for  some  years. 
She  is  nine,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey. 

"  Nine,"  said  Mr.  Blagden,  "  last  April." 

"  Of  course,  the  seed  is  there,"  mused  the  other. 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  three  voices,  almost  in  unison. 

"  Eric  is  developing  very  marked  traits  that  —  er^ 
ahem!  —  You  might  say  they  are  quite  ominous,"  said 


42  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mr.  Blagden.  "  He  has  a  temper  and  a  tendency  to  let 
go  of  it  without  any  effort  at  self-restraint.  I  regret 
to  say  that  he  has  formed  the  habit  of  throwing  stones 
at  Chetwynd, —  frequently,  so  my  boy  informs  me,  when 
his  back  is  turned.  That  trait,  believe  me,  is  distinctly 
hereditary.  It  isn't  necessary,  I'm  sure,  for  me  to  go 
into  the  private  history  of  his  father.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
he  was  a  man  of  violent  temper,  with  a  disposition  to  — 
er,  ahem!  —  to  shed  blood.  I  regret  to  add  that  the 
children's  mother  also  took  a  lawless  view  of  the  pro 
prieties.  It  is  our  duty  to  paint  the  picture  as  strongly, 
as  vigorously  as  we  can  for  Eric's  sake.  He  must  be 
made  to  see  the  handwriting  on  the  wall.  He  must  be 
warned  in  time.  We  may  be  able  to  check  or  divert  the 
evil  tendencies  that  accrue  to  him  by  nature." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey,  "  we  must  ob 
struct  Nature.  I  quite  understand,  my  dear  Mr.  Blag- 
den." 

"  Precisely,"  agreed  Horace. 

"  We  should  pray  for  the  poor  boy,"  began  Mrs. 
Presbrey.  Mr.  Blagden  held  up  his  hand  and  shook  his 
head,  with  a  deprecatory  smile.  He  was  still  vaguely 
conscious  of  a  remote  period  in  his  life  when  his  ad 
miration  for  Julia  Crowden  rose  almost  to  the  impor 
tance  of  love.  That  was  when  he  was  fifteen  and  she 
was  twenty-five.  He  was  now  forty-five,  and  she  had 
been  the  wife  of  his  pastor  for  fifteen  years.  He  never 
looked  at  her  without  experiencing  a  sort  of  speculative 
wonder,  very  faint,  very  vague  and  plainly  reminiscent. 

"  The  time  for  prayer  has  passed,"  he  protested. 
"  We  must  use  a  little  common  sense  now."  He  has 
tened  to  set  himself  aright :  "  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,  Julia.  So  many  of  my  prayers  have  been  answered 
that  I,  least  of  all,  should  deny  the  efficacy  of  prayer. 


GALL  BROTH  43 

I  will  say,  however,  that  my  prayers  kave  always  been 
supplemented  by  a  certain  amount  of  purely  human 
endeavour."  He  was  unconsciously  humorous,  despite 
his  serious  mien.  "  What  I  mean  is  this :  We  can't 
help  Eric  with  prayer  unless  we  are  able  to  secure  his 
co-operation.  We  can't  obtain  that  without  first  tell 
ing  him  what  it's  all  about.  Do  you  get  my  mean- 
ing?"  ^ 

"  It  is  perfectly  clear,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey,  folding 
his  napkin  with  grave  precision,  so  that  the  initial  "  B  " 
remained  in  view. 

"  Perfectly,"  his  wife  agreed. 

"  What  would  you  suggest?  "  asked  Mr.  Blagden. 

Mr.  Presbrey  was  tactful.  He  levelled  his  gaze  upon 
a  huge  Delft  platter  on  the  plate  rail  above  Mrs.  Blag- 
den's  prim  coiffure,  and  pondered.  He  pondered  long 
enough  to  permit  his  diplomacy  to  bring  results.  The 
effort  was  successful.  Mr.  Blagden  offered  the  sugges 
tion. 

"  I  suppose  we'd  better  have  Eric  in  the  library  at 
once.  Ring  for  Martha,  please."  He  directed  the  re 
quest  to  his  wife,  who  at  once  jangled  the  little  silver 
hand-bell  that  stood  beside  the  Warsaw  candlestick. 
"  Martha,"  said  he,  when  the  ancient  domestic  appeared 
in  the  door,  "  send  Master  Eric  to  the  library  at  once." 

So  far  as  Horace  was  concerned,  the  conference  was 
over.  It  was  now  time  for  action. 

"  Eric's  gone  to  bed,  sir,"  announced  Martha. 

"  It  isn't  his  bedtime,"  said  Mrs.  Blagden  sternly. 

"  No,  ma'am,  but  he  said  his  face  was  hurting  him 
so." 

"His  face?"  demanded  Mr.  Blagden,  who  had  not 
heard  of  the  encounter  in  the  arbour. 

"  He  said  he  fell  off  the  fence  and  bruised  it,  sir," 


44  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

said  Martha,  who  would  not  have  repeated  a  lie  for  the 
world. 

Mrs.  Blagden  cleared  her  throat  uneasily.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  remain  silent,  but,  on  second  thoughts, 
she  saw  a  chance  to  discredit  the  boy  in  the  eyes  of  his 
uncle.  She  knew  that  Horace  detested  a  lie. 

"  Fell  off  the  fence?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  He  did  noth 
ing  of  the  sort.  He  attacked  Chetwynd,  who  was  com 
pelled  to  thrash  him  soundly.  Now,  why  should  he  tell 
such  a  lie  as  that?  " 

Mr.  Blagden  possessed  a  sense  of  justice.  "  You  are 
much  larger  than  Eric,  Chetwynd,"  he  said,  turning  a 
bit  red  in  the  face. 

"  He  threw  a  brick  at  me.  I  punched  him  in  self- 
defence,"  said  his  son,  after  a  scowl  of  amazement  at  his 
mother. 

"  You  may  go,  Martha,"  said  Mr.  Blagden,  for  once 
a  bit  confounded.  "  But  stay.  If  he  isn't  asleep,  tell 
him  to  get  up  and  come  down  at  once." 

"  Pound  hard  on  the  door  before  you  ask  him  if  he's 
asleep,"  advised  the  resourceful  Chetwynd. 

"  Let  us  retire  to  the  library,"  said  his  father,  arising. 

"  Say,"  said  Chetwynd,  "  if  you  think  Mary  is  too 
young  to  know  things,  you're  off  your  base." 

"  My  son,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  use  such  an  expres 
sion.  Off  my  base?  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  " 

"  She's  onto  things  all  right,"  announced  the  boy 
eagerly.  "  She  knows  a  good  deal  more  than  you  think 
she  does.  You  ought  to  hear  some  of  the  words  she 
uses." 

"  Incredible,"  cried  Mr.  Presbrey,  plainly  distressed, 
and  without  knowing  what  words  she  had  used. 

Horace  studied  the  figures  in  the  carpet  for  a  mo- 


GALL  BROTH  45 

ment.  "  You  may  ask  — "  but  Martha  had  departed. 
"  Ring  the  bell,  please,  my  dear." 

The  bell  was  jangled  once  more  and  Martha  came 
into  the  room,  somewhat  out  of  breath. 

"  I  hadn't  got  half  way  upstairs,  ma'am,"  she  an 
nounced  rather  sharply. 

"  You  may  bring  Mary  downstairs  also,  Martha," 
ordered  Mrs.  Blagden. 

Fifteen  minutes  passed  before  Eric  and  Mary,  very 
wide  awake  and  curious,  presented  themselves  in  the  li 
brary.  Eric,  while  dressing,  had  given  himself  up  to 
reckless  speculation  as  to  the  cause  of  the  summons. 
On  the  way  downstairs,  he  confided  his  conclusions  to 
the  mystified  Mary.  His  eyes  glittered  with  the  joyous 
hope  that  lurked  in  his  soul. 

"  I'll  bet  they're  going  to  send  us  off  to  boarding 
school,"  he  whispered.  She  gave  an  ecstatic  gasp,  and 
clutched  at  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Eric,  do  you  really  think  so  ?  Oh,  it  can't  be 
true!" 

"  Well,  it's  something,"  he  argued  excitedly.  "  It 
must  be  important,  or  they  wouldn't  be  getting  us  out 
of  bed." 

Mary  was  of  faint  heart.  She  pulled  a  wry  face. 
And  Mary's  dark,  flower-like  face  was  of  an  exquisite 
modelling  that  could  not  be  wrought  into  anything  un 
pleasant  to  the  eye,  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried.  Her 
very  worst  "  faces  "  were  fascinating.  You  would  have 
loved  every  inch  of  her,  believe  me. 

"'Tisn't  boarding-school,"  she  declared.  "That 
could  wait  till  breakfast-time.  It's  something  else. 
Mr.  Presbrey's  still  there." 

Eric  pondered.     "  I'll  bet  it's  about  you  and  me  skip 


46  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

ping  Sunday  school  two  weeks  ago, —  the  day  of  the 
fire  down  in  Front  street." 

"  Maybe  someone's  left  us  a  fortune,"  whispered 
she,  just  as  he  was  about  to  turn  the  knob  of  the  library 
door.  "  Oh,  my !  What  if  someone  has !  " 

Eric's  "  Gee  "  was  a  great  potential  declaration  of 
resolve. 

The  Blagden  library,  like  all  other  rooms  in  the  big 
house,  was  stiffly  respectable.  The  rows  of  books,  in 
the  original  cloth  bindings,  covered  the  wall  space  on 
four  sides  of  the  room  from  floor  to  ceiling.  The  glass 
door  of  each  section  was  locked,  and  Mr.  Blagden  car 
ried  the  key  in  his  trousers'  pocket.  The  only  portion 
of  the  volumes  accessible  to  the  reader  was  the  title 
stamped  on  the  back.  Dust  was  not  the  only  thing  that 
was  denied  access  to  the  shelves.  Most  of  the  volumes 
were  first  editions  and  uncut,  and  they  possessed  a  value 
that  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  the  ordinary  mind. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Blagden  himself  looked  into  them,  but 
to  no  one  else  was  this  privilege  extended.  There  was 
no  book  there,  you  may  be  sure,  that  the  most  innocent 
boy  or  girl  could  not  have  read  without  contamination. 
They  were  a  particularly  clean  lot  of  "  items,"  to  use 
the  professional  term. 

Once,  by  mistake,  an  English  edition,  in  twelve  vol 
umes,  of  the  Memoirs  of  Casanova  joined  the  solemn 
and  sedate  company,  quite  without  discussion  for  the 
simple  reason  that  the  master  of  the  house  had  taken 
the  books  in  part  payment  of  a  debt  incurred  by  a  real 
literary  chap,  who  had  been  in  college  with  him.  The 
erotic  Casanova  remained  there  for  many  months, 
touching  hides  with  a  carefully  bound  set  of  Ruskin, 
before  someone  who  knew  came  along  to  enlighten  Mr. 
Blagden  as  to  their  salaciousness.  The  owner,  aghast, 


GALL  BROTH  47 

would  have  cast  the  offending  volumes  into  the  fire  had 
not  his  friend  advised  him  that  a  good  set  of  Casanova 
would  bring  something  like  a  hundred  dollars  if  the 
"  right  party "  came  along.  So  Mr.  Blagden  kept 
them  a  year  longer,  waiting  for  the  right  party  to 
come  along.  He  sold  them  at  last  to  the  cashier  in  his 
bank,  and  ever  afterward  looked  upon  that  gentleman 
as  a  person  of  perverted  taste  and  not  to  be  wholly 
trusted. 

But  I  am  diverging.  The  two  Midthornes,  on  enter 
ing  the  room,  paused  irresolute  just  inside  the  door, 
gazing  in  no  little  dismay  upon  the  four  stern-visaged 
persons  ranged  about  the  long  library  table.  Chet- 
wynd  had  partially  effaced  himself  by  sitting  upon  the 
small  of  his  back  in  the  great  arm  chair  in  the  corner. 

"  Close  the  door,  Eric,"  said  his  uncle.  "  Now,  come 
here.  You,  too,  Mary."  The  children  approached 
timorously.  "  Let  me  see  your  lip.  You  tumbled  off 
the  fence?  " 

Eric  fell  into  the  trap.     "  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  while  four  pairs  of 
condemning  eyes  transfixed  the  boy. 

"  Eric,  it  is  wrong  to  tell  fibs,"  said  his  aunt,  in  hurt 
tones. 

The  boy  saw  his  mistake.  He  felt  a  hot,  furious 
wave  of  humiliation  shoot  by  his  throat  and  up  to  his 
brain. 

"  It  isn't  a  fib,"  he  cried  stoutly.  "  I  did  fall  off  the 
fence  last  week." 

"  You  were  attempting  to  deceive  us,"  declared  his 
uncle,  fastening  his  cold  grey  eyes  upon  the  boy's  face. 
"  It  is  quite  as  bad  as  lying.  Why  could  you  not 
have  told  the  truth,  and  said  that  Chetwynd  struck 
you?  " 


48  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Because  I'd  sooner  lie  than  tell  tales,"  declared  Eric 
boldly.  "  My  mother  used  to  punish  me  if  I  came  in 
crying  and  told  her  some  boy  had  hit  me  and  father 
always  said  I  ought  to  be  a  man  and  fight  back  instead 
of—" 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,"  interrupted  Mr.  Blag- 
den  in  some  haste.  Mr.  Presbrey  coughed,  with  a  deli 
cate  regard  for  the  feelings  of  his  unfortunate  friends. 

"  Poor  boy,  poor  boy,"  he  sighed.  "  As  the  twig  is 
bent!" 

"  Er  —  ahem !  Your  aunt  and  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion,  children,  that  it  is  high  time  you  were 
brought  to  a  realisation  of  what  is  before  you.  It  is 
not  a  pleasant  task,  my  lad, —  not  a  pleasant  task." 

"  Far  from  it,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey. 

"  Sit  here  on  the  sofa,  both  of  you.  That's  right. 
Now,  please  do  not  interrupt  —  er  —  ahem !  Remem 
ber  it  is  for  your  own  good." 

The  children  sat  rigidly  upright  on  the  edge  of  the 
old  damask  sofa,  facing  the  four  persons  who  looked 
across  the  long  table  at  them.  The  lights  in  the  chan 
delier  were  burning.  Mary  glanced  up  at  them  with  a 
vague  sense  of  wonder.  She  had  never  seen  them  lighted 
before.  It  was  always  the  kerosene  student's  lamp  on 
the  end  of  the  table,  beside  Mr.  Blagden's  chair.  There 
was  a. marked  absence  of  the  dim  religious  light  in  the 
room  to-night. 

"  Don't  cross  your  legs,  Mary,"  said  her  aunt  se 
verely.  "  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  — " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  gasped  Mary,  uncrossing  her  plump 
little  legs  in  a  hurry,  and  sending  her  quaint,  apolo 
getic  smile  up  against  the  frozen  faces  opposite.  The 
chill  was  transferred  to  her  blithe  little  heart. 

"  Mr.  Presbrey  wants  very  much  to  talk  to  both  of 


GALL  BROTH  49 

you,"  announced  Mr.  Blagden.  "  I  am  sure  you  will 
receive  what  he  is  about  to  say  in  good  grace  and  hu 
mility.  You  know  that  he,  as  well  as  your  aunt  and  I, 
has  the  welfare  of  your  souls  at  heart.  He  is  about  to 
tell  you  of  your  father,  and  the  dreadful  story  of  your 
unhappy  mother.  Now,  please  pay  strict  attention  to 
his  words-  You  will  find  comfort  and  solace  in  the 
promises  he  will  hold  out  to  you  afterwards.  There  is 
a  great  light  beyond  the  breakers  —  er  —  ahem !  — 
over  which  you  must  be  cast  before  the  darkness  of  the 
night  is  lifted  for  you.  He  will,  with  God's  blessing, 
direct  you  into  paths  which  lead  away  from  the  pits 
into  which  your  unfortunate  parents  drifted  in  their 
wilfulness.  Will  you  be  good  enough,  Mr.  Presbrey, 
to  —  er  —  ahem!"  He  broke  off  the  injunction  —  it 
was  hardly  a  request  —  in  the  middle,  and  settled  back 
with  complacent  confidence  in  his  pastor's  intuition. 

The  worthy  pastor  cleared  his  throat,  and  began. 
With  his  uncle's  first  words,  Eric  felt  a  sickening,  hor 
rid  lump  arising  in  his  throat.  Something  seemed  to 
tighten  about  his  whole  body,  holding  him  in  a  grip  so 
relentless  that  he  could  scarcely  breathe.  He  sat  there, 
staring  wide-eyed  and  helpless,  at  the  lean  face  of  the 
man  who  was  to  say  things  he  knew  would  hurt  as  noth 
ing  had  ever  hurt  him  before.  Twice  he  swallowed  hard, 
but  the  lump  was  there  to  stay.  He  heard  the  quick, 
bewildered  catch  in  Mary's  breathing.  Without  look 
ing,  he  knew  that  her  lip  trembled.  He  knew  that  they 
were  about  to  attack  his  father.  He  knew,  instinctively, 
what  charge  would  be  brought  against  him, —  and  he 
had  loved  him  so  dearly,  so  fiercely.  Words  struggled 
to  his  lips. 

"  It  was  a  duel,"  he  managed  to  say,  in  a  pitiful  ef 
fort  to  anticipate  pain. 


50  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mr.  Presbrey  hesitated.  He  wondered  who  had  given 
this  version  to  the  boy. 

"  Alas,  my  boy,  you  have  been  misinformed  —  er  — 
I  should  say  you  have  misconstrued  the  words  of  your 
informant,"  he  said  uneasily.  It  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Blagden,  in  a  moment  of 
weakness,  might  have  told  the  boy  that  there  was  a  duel ; 
in  that  event,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  proceed  with 
tact  —  with  caution. 

"  Who  told  you  that,  Eric?  "  demanded  his  uncle  and 
aunt  simultaneously. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  supplied  Mr.  Presbrey  indul 
gently,  quite  at  ease  once  more.  "  It  may  have  been 
that  as  a  very  small  child  he  heard  something  to  that 
effect,  and  his  memory  has  retained  it  after  a  fashion. 
Quite  likely,  er  —  quite  natural.  Very  frequently  a 
word  spoken  in  the  presence  of  the  merest  babe  finds 
lodgment  in  its  immature  brain  and  makes  itself  mani 
fest  strangely  in  after  years.  I  knew  of  an  instance  — " 

"  Don't  keep  the  child  waiting,  Arthur  dear,"  put  in 
his  wife.  "  He  seems  so  eager  to  hear  about  his 
father."  She  meant  to  be  kind,  I've  no  doubt. 

Therefore,  Mr.  Presbrey,  with  the  permission  of  the 
erring  woman's  brother,  plunged  into  the  history  of 
Philip  Midthorne  and  Mary  Blagden,  ordering  his  lan 
guage  in  its  simplest  form  so  that  his  small  listeners 
might  read  as  they  ran,  so  to  speak.  The  whole  ugly 
business,  from  start  to  finish,  was  laid  bare  for  their 
benefit, —  and  their  future  glorification.  The  helpless 
little  Midthornes  heard  him  through  to  the  end,  sitting 
immovable  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  never  once  lifting 
their  dry,  half-closed  eyes  from  the  carpet  at  their  feet. 
They  heard  the  beings  they  loved  best  of  all  in  the 


GALL  BROTH  51 

world,  albeit  they  had  known  them  so  briefly,  charac 
terised  as  creatures  of  iniquity,  their  sorry  misdeeds 
held  up  to  them  as  warning  examples,  very  much  as  the 
hangman  of  old  left  his  victim  swinging  by  the  road 
side  so  that  all  who  contemplated  evil-doing  might  see 
and  be  guided  into  paths  of  rectitude. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  follow  the  good  Mr.  Presbrey's 
preamble,  nor  to  repeat  his  saintly  interruptions  of  him 
self  that  he  might  point  out  lights  among  the  shadows 
when  occasions  suggested  themselves.  He  dwelt  with 
particular  intensity  on  the  devils  that  entered  into  and 
warped  the  nature  of  Philip  Midthorne,  transforming 
him  into  a  common  murderer  when  he  might  have  been 
an  honour  and  a  credit  to  his  people, —  especially  to 
those  innocent,  God-fearing  connections  in  Corinth.  At 
some  length,  he  dwelt  with  the  impulses  that  conquered 
the  man,  and  pointed  out  to  Eric  the  signs  of  them  al 
ready  appearing  in  him.  Violent  temper,  lack  of  self- 
restraint,  the  desire  to  inflict  bodily  injury,  ungovern 
able  spells  of  fury,  sullenness,  secretiveness, —  and  so  on 
and  so  on  —  against  all  of  which  he  must  steel  himself 
unless  he  was  determined  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
ill-fated  father. 

"  You  do  not  want  to  be  a  murderer,  Eric,"  he  said 
at  one  stage,  bending  his  luminous  blue  eyes  on  the 
bent,  downcast  face  of  the  boy.  "  You  do  not  want  to 
come  to  an  end  like  his,  my  boy, —  do  you?  Ah,  I  am 
sure  you  do  not.  And  yet, —  ah,  me !  I  shudder  to 
think  of  what  may  come  to  pass  if  you  do  not  safe 
guard  yourself.  *  Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  you 
rest.'  Let  me  be  your  guide,  my  boy;  let  me  lead  you 
into  sweet,  gentle  fields  where  strife  and  bitterness  are 
not  to  be  encountered." 


52  -,     MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mrs.  Presbrey,  carried  away  by  the  earnestness  of  her 
husband,  cried  out :  "  Oh,  Eric,  think  twice, —  always 
think  twice ! " 

"  Think  of  the  great,  good  God,  who  — "  began  Mr. 
Presbrey,  but  Eric,  who,  all  through  the  blighting  re 
cital  had  been  trying  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  ad 
monition  :  "  Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother  that 
thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land,"  could  control  him 
self  no  longer. 

"  I  wish  I  could  kill  you, —  and  you !  "  he  cried  from 
the  bottom  of  his  harassed  soul,  lifting  his  blood-red  face 
to  glare  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other  Presbrey. 

There  was  a  full  minute  of  utter  silence. 

We  must  do  Chetwynd  justice.  He  was  secretly 
wishing  that,  by  some  chance,  Eric  might  have  a  fair- 
sized  rock  in  his  pocket,  and  also  the  coolness  to  heave  it 
accurately. 

"  There,  there ! "  murmured  Mr.  Presbrey,  rather 
helplessly.  This  benign  adjuration,  with  its  expressive 
hand  accompaniment,  was  meant  for  the  distracted  boy, 
but  somehow  it  went  farther.  It  was  the  means  of 
checking  the  caustic  reprimand  that  rose  to  the  lips  of 
each  of  the  elder  Blagdens,  as  well  as  putting  his  scan 
dalised  wife  in  her  proper  place  before  she  could  utter 
a  word  —  which  was  something  he  had  never  been  able 
to  do  before.  "  You  must  not  give  way  to  rage  like 
that.  You  should  try  to  govern,  try  to  conquer  the  vi 
cious  impulse  that  is  back  of  such  outbursts.  I  am 
sorry, —  very  sorry,  Eric, —  to  hear  such  words  from 
your  lips.  Only  ruffians  and  the  besotted  of  our  world 
utter  such  threats.  Compose  yourself.  You  can  over 
come  these  base  thoughts  if  you  will  but  try.  Try,  my 
boy,  try.  I— " 

"  Amen  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife. 


GALL  BROTH  53 

"  Amen ! "  added  Chetwynd  from  his  chair  in  the 
corner.  Mr.  Presbrey  turned  a  dark  red.  He  was  con 
scious  of  ridicule  in  the  boy's  dolorous  iteration. 

"  Mr.  Blagden, — "  he  began  warmly. 

"  Chetwynd ! "  thundered  the  young  man's  father. 
"  Leave  the  room !  " 

"  What  have  I  done?  "  whined  Chetwynd,  thoroughly 
frightened. 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Blagden,  I  beseech  you,"  cried  Mr. 
Presbrey  in  haste,  reconsidering  an  impulse.  "  I  am 
sure  Chetwynd  spoke  with  sincerity  in  his  heart.  Do 
not  chide  him,  I  implore."  Mr.  Blagden  shook  his 
finger  at  Chetwynd,  and  the  incident  was  closed.  But 
in  one  of  the  undiscovered  recesses  of  Mr.  Presbrey's 
soul,  a  small,  bitter  thing  took  root,  and  from  it,  all  un 
beknownst  to  him,  a  most  unchristian  aversion  to  Chet 
wynd  was  to  grow  with  amazing  swiftness.  Mr.  Pres 
brey  never  had  hated  anyone  or  anything  in  all  his  life. 
But  he  was  destined  to  know  the  feeling  and  to  enjoy  it. 

He  renewed  his  appeal  to  the  boy  on  the  sofa.  You 
would  have  thought  that  Eric  already  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  scaffold,  so  eloquently  did  the  excellent 
gentleman  plead  for  his  regeneration.  The  boy,  after 
his  single  outburst,  shrank  within  himself,  crushed,  hu 
miliated,  trembling.  Somehow,  he  knew  now  that  old 
Jabez  had  lied  to  him,  and  that  these  horrid  sentences 
contained  the  truth.  The  light  went  out  of  his  soul, 
the  warmth  from  his  heart.  A  beautiful  ideal  was 
being  shattered  as  he  looked  on,  and  he  could  offer  no 
resistance  to  the  demolition.  It  was  all  true.  His 
father  was  a  murderer.  He  had  shot  down  a  man  with 
out  mercy,  without  fairness.  There  was  nothing  left 
for  the  boy  to  build  on,  nothing  that  could  stand  firmly 
enough  for  him  to  attach  his  dreams  to  —  nothing1 


54.  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

The  minister  was  telling  the  truth.  The  minister  could 
not  lie.  Old  Jabez  had  lied.  Old  Jabez  could  lie,  he 
recalled  in  a  hazy  fashion  as  he  tried  to  prop  up  his 
hopes  by  putting  the  old  seaman's  word  against  that 
of  the  divine. 

His  face  was  white  with  the  frost  that  had  entered 
his  blood.  His  eyes  were  burning,  his  soul  was  faint. 
Twice,  even  thrice,  he  looked  to  his  uncle  and  aunt  for 
succour,  though  he  knew  not  why.  Something  told  him, 
beforehand  that  they  would  not  come  to  his  relief,  that 
they  had  no  desire  to  shield  him  from  the  truth, —  aye, 
that  they  had  brought  it  about  for  some  inexplicable 
reason  of  their  own.  He  did  not  feel  the  convulsive 
clutching  of  his  sister's  fingers;  he  was  dead  to  every 
thing  except  the  steel  that  was  slipping  into  his  heart. 

Once  he  heard  Mrs.  Presbrey  say,  as  if  from  afar: 
"  Don't  you  remember,  Eric  dear,  the  man  who  was 
hanged  in  Ridgely  county  last  fall?  Think  of  that! 
Think  of  that  man's  feelings ! " 

But  he  could  not  think  of  that  man's  feelings.  He 
could  only  think  of  his  own,  of  his  sister's,  of  his 
father's.  Why  should  she  ask  him  to  think  of  that 
man's  feelings?  What  was  that  man  to  him,  or  to  his 
sister?  What  had  he  to  do  with  the  case?  That  man 
had  only  killed  his  wife.  He  had  not  killed  a  scoundrel, 
as  his  father  had  done. 

"Come  to  Christ!  Come  to  Christ!"  droned  the 
gentle,  persistent  voice  of  the  minister,  punctuating 
his  harangue  with  the  earnest  appeal  from  time  to  time. 

Out  of  the  maze  Eric  heard  his  uncle's  voice: 

"  Do  not  hesitate  on  my  account,  Presbrey.  Tell 
them  of  their  mother." 

In  the  middle  of  Mr.  Presbrey's  devout  castigation  of 
Horace  Blagden's  protagonistic  sister,  little  Mary 


GALL  BROTH  55 

threw  herself  on  Eric's  shoulder  and  sobbed  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  Eric's  trembling  voice  broke  in  on 
her  sobs,  in  the  feeble  effort  to  comfort  her. 

"  Don't  cry,  Mamie,  please  don't !  Listen !  You 
never  can  be  like  that.  You've  got  me.  I'll  stand  by 
you.  Nothing  can  ever  happen  to  you."  Then  he 
turned  fiercely  upon  his  uncle :  "  Why  do  you  let  him 
say  such  things  about  your  sister,  Uncle  Horace?  She 
was  your  sister,  my  mother  was.  I'd  kill  a  man,  if  I 
teas  a  man,  if  he  said  such  things  about  my  sister ! " 
As  an  after-clap,  he  added  shrilly :  "  Even  if  they 
hung  me  for  it ! " 

But  Mr.  Blagden  retained  the  unruffled  composure 
that  made  him  the  great  man  of  Corinth.  He  felt  of 
his  watch  fob, —  mind  you,  he  did  not  fumble  it, —  and 
gazed  blandly  at  Mrs.  Presbrey,  a  queer  little  smile  of 
apology  on  his  lips.  As  much  as  to  say :  "  In  my  own 
house,  dear  me." 

"  I  won't  listen  to  any  more,"  cried  Eric,  coming  to 
his  feet  and  facing  them  all.  "  I  shan't  stay  here. 
Mary  shan't,  either.  We'll  go  away  to-night.  I  know 
where  we  can  go.  I  — " 

"  Eric !  Be  quiet !  "  commanded  his  uncle.  "  And 
sit  down." 

"  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me,"  flared  the  boy, 
struggling  with  his  tears.  "  What's  the  use  ?  I'm  — 
I'm  fore-ordained,  ain't  I?  Ain't  we  all  fore-ordained? 
What  good  is  it  going  to  do  to  pray?  Prayer  won't 
help  a  fore-ordained  boy,  will  it?  It  won't — "  He 
was  plunging  recklessly,  heedlessly  into  the  deepest  cur 
rents  of  his  creed,  inspired  by  a  courage  born  of 
despair.  It  is  the  same  spirit  that  urges  on  the  wretch 
who  is  courting  suicide.  Mr.  Presbrey  cried  out  in 
horrified  accents,  checking  the  bitter  flow  of  words : 


56  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Stop !  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying. 
Listen  to  me,  my  boy." 

"  I  won't  listen !  I'm  forever  damned,  so  what's  the 
use.  Let  me  out  of  here !  Come  on,  Mary !  " 

He  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  dragging  his  sister 
after  him.  Mr.  Blagden  leaped  up  from  his  chair  and 
put  himself  between  them  and  the  door. 

"  You  go  back  there  at  once,  sir,  and  beg  Mr.  Pres- 
brey's  pardon,"  he  hissed,  grasping  the  boy  by  the 
arm.  "  What  will  he  think  of  you  ?  Where  are  your 
manners  ?  " 

Eric  whirled  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  burying 
his  face  in  his  arms,  a  great  wail  of  anguish  escaping 
his  lips,  to  be  followed  an  instant  later  by  a  rush  of 
sobs. 

Mr.  Presbrey  sprang  to  his  feet,  an  exalted  look  in 
his  face.  He  lifted  his  eyes  and  clasped  his  hands  in 
the  ecstasy  of  spiritual  triumph. 

"  Glory  be  to  God !  Praise  the  Lord !  "  he  cried  in 
thrilling  tones.  "  He  is  saved !  He  has  seen  the  light ! 
The  spirit  of  evil  is  broken !  Praise  the  Lord !  Let  us 
give  thanks  for  the  sign!  Let  us  bow  our  heads  in 
prayer." 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  the  quivering  boy  and 
lifted  his  voice  in  prayer.  The  others  stood  with  bowed 
heads,  even  Chetwynd  being  carried  away  by  the  rush  of 
the  conquerors.  Little  Mary,  clinging  to  the  door 
knob,  stood  transfixed,  gazing  in  helpless  astonishment 
at  the  picture. 

Later,  the  two  children  were  led  to  their  room  by 
Mrs.  Blagden  herself,  attended  by  the  soulful  Mrs. 
Presbrey. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  you  poor  dears,"  said  the  former,  tears 
of  emotion  in  her  voice.  "  You  will  feel  better  in  the 


GALL  BROTH  57 

morning.  It  will  all  come  right  in  the  end.  Try  to 
believe  all  that  Mr.  Presbrey  has  said  to  you.  He 
knows  best.  He  will  be  your  best  friend." 

Perhaps  if  Rena  Blagden  had  never  come  to  Corinth 
to  live  she  would  have  been  a  different  woman, —  a  gen 
tler  one. 

"  Mr.  Presbrey  will  come  to  see  you  in  the  morning, 
children,"  said  Mrs.  Presbrey.  "  Keep  a  brave  heart 
and  put  your  trust  in  the  Lord.  He  will  give  you 
strength."  Then  to  Mrs.  Blagden,  as  that  lady  gently 
closed  the  'door  on  the  children :  "  Don't  you  think 
you'd  better  lock  the  door,  my  dear?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    ENTRANCE    OF    ADAM    CARR 

Ma.  PRESBREY  came  the  next  day  and  for  many  days 
thereafter  with  a  regularity  that  deserved  something 
more  (I  was  about  to  say  better)  than  the  mere  salvation 
of  two  small  souls.  Sometimes  he  got  it,  and  some 
times  he  didn't.  It  all  depended  on  what  Mrs.  Blagden 
had  in  the  house. 

In  any  event,  he  was  sincere  in  the  task  unto  which 
he  had  set  himself.  I  am  not  trying  to  make  Mr.  Pres- 
brey  out  a  hypocrite.  He  was  not  that.  He  honestly, 
firmly  believed  that  he  was  following  the  dictates  of  a 
Christian  spirit  in  bedevilling  the  heart-sick  boy  with 
his  words  of  advice,  and  caution,  and  consolation.  At 
least,  there  was  attached  to  his  prerogative  all  the  vir 
tues  to  be  found  in  good  wool :  it  wore  well  and  did  not 
shine. 

Eric,  after  the  effects  of  that  cruel  night  had  washed 
themselves  away  in  tears,  rose  manfully  to  the  exi 
gencies  of  his  position.  He  turned  to  Mary,  forgetting 
his  own  troubles  in  the  resolve  to  lessen  hers.  She  could 
not  fail  to  respond  to  the  strength  and  earnestness  of 
his  devotion.  Young  as  she  was,  she  recognised  the 
spirit  of  unselfishness,  the  real  heroism  that  moved  him 
to  think  first  of  her,  then  of  himself.  She  was  never  to 
forget  the  first  few  days  following  that  wretched  awak 
ening.  Somehow,  it  came  to  her  that  Eric  was  a  grown 
man  and  a  strong  one,  with  the  will  and  the  power  to 
stand  between  her  and  all  adversity,  all  things  cruel  and 

unkind. 

58 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR    59 

Together,  they  submitted  to  the  importunities  of  the 
good  pastor,  enduring  with  a  grace  that  had  all  the 
marks  of  a  patient  sullenness.  They  were  temporarily 
broken ;  they  had  no  power  of  initiative ;  they  could  not 
even  nourish  the  resentment  that  strove  so  hard  to  grow 
in  their  ploughed,  harrowed  hearts.  They  listened 
numbly  to  the  unceasing  repetition  of  such  sentences  as 
these,  coming  not  only  from  the  Presbreys,  but  their 
uncle  and  aunt  as  well: 

"  It  is  all  for  the  best,  my  dears." 

"  You  will  thank  us  some  day." 

"  God  is  good.     He  will  show  you  the  way." 

"  A  contrite  heart,  etc." 

"  You  must  not  be  allowed  to  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  your  unhappy  father,  Eric." 

"  We  would  not  be  doing  our  Christian  duty  if  we 
failed  to  warn  you  against  the  impulses  that  wrecked 
your  misguided  mother." 

"  Your  uncle  knows  best,  Eric." 

"  Your  aunt  knows  best,  Mary." 

"  Mr.  Presbrey  knows  best,  children." 

These,  and  other  concomitants  of  woe. 

Chetwynd's  oft-repeated  fling  was  this,  with  appro 
priate  variations: 

"  You're  a  nice  one  to  talk,  you  are." 

The  older  boy  never  missed  the  opportunity  to 
grill  his  wretched  victim  with  scornful  allusions  to 
"  the  Midthorne  courage,"  "  the  Midthorne  hon 
our,"  "  the  Midthorne  virtue,"  "  the  Midthorne  pros 
pects." 

Eric's  half-hour  with  that  unfortunate,  though  kindly 
prevaricator,  Jabez  Carr,  was  one  that  the  old  man  was 
not  likely  to  forget,  even  in  his  years  of  failing  mem 
ory.  The  boy  burst  in  upon  him  while  the  ignoble 


60  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

wounds  in  his  heart  were  still  festering,  and  his  pathetic 
arraignment  of  the  old  seaman  was  the  very  essence  of 
gall.  He  did  not  blame,  but  rather  thanked  the  old 
man  for  his  deliberate  deception,  and  yet  there  was  that 
in  his  words  which  compelled  Jabez  to  look  uport  him 
self  as  the  veriest  blackguard  unhung,  the  most  mis 
guided  fool  alive.  For  days  thereafter,  the  bluff  old 
fellow  moped;  and  when  he  was  not  moping,  he  was 
cursing  himself ;  and  when  he  was  not  doing  that  he  was 
cursing  Horace  Blagden.  I  will  not  attempt  to  enumer 
ate  the  countless  and  varied  devices  practised  by  the 
old  man  to  win  back  the  confidence  of  his  young  friend, 
nor  will  I  try  to  describe  his  alternating  moods  as  these 
devices  prospered  or  shrivelled.  This  much  I  will  say: 
he  became  a  very  dull  and  uninteresting  story-teller  for 
the  obvious  reason  that  he  maintained  a  strict  and  rigid 
adherence  to  the  truth.  His  veracity  was  truly  op 
pressive.  The  days  of  the  pirates  were  over.  In  their 
stead  were  commonplace  narratives  in  which  he  seldom 
performed  anything  more  heroic  than  the  swabbing  of 
a  deck,  or,  perhaps,  an  encounter  with  an  obstinate 
pawnbroker.  As  time  went  on,  the  two  children  began 
to  look  upon  him  as  a  very  tiresome  and  unprofitable 
person.  Finally,  one  day,  long  after  his  regenerate 
period  began,  the  anxious  anticipation  in  Mary's  starved 
soul  burst  its  bonds,  and  she  almost  wailed: 

"  Uncle  Jabe,  why  don't  you  tell  us  any  more  grand 
stories  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  he,  "  it  ain't  right  to  tell  lies," 
"  But  how  would  we  know  they  were  lies  ?  " 
**  You  can  allus  tell  when  a  feller's  lyin',  if  you  once 
ketch  him  in  one,"  quoth  he. 

"Wefl,  they  are  lots  of  fun,  just  the  same,"  pro 
tested  she,     "  Ain't  they,  Eric?  " 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR         61 

"  Yes,"  said  Eric  rather  gravely,  "  if  you  tell  'em  in 
fun." 

"  I'll  tell  'em,  all  you  like,"  said  Jabez,  his  face 
brightening,  "  if  you'll  promise  to  believe  they're  lies." 

"  Then,  how  will  we  know  when  you're  telling  the 
truth?" 

He  pondered.  After  five  puffs  at  his  pipe,  he  said: 
"  Well,  if  I  begin  by  sayirf  they're  the  God's  truth,  you 
can  believe  'em.  If  I  don't  say  that,  you'll  know  they're 
lies." 

And  so  it  was  that  old  Jabez  came  joyously  into  his 
own  again. 


This  narrative,  with  your  permission,  kind  reader,  has 
little  more  to  do  with  the  Midthornes  as  small  children. 
Suffice  to  say,  they  were  more  or  less  like  other  chil 
dren  in  this  respect:  they  could  not  remain  young  for 
ever.  They  had  to  grow  up.  In  passing,  it  may  be 
stated  that  the  sage  counsel  of  old  Jabez  alone  kept 
Eric  from  running  away  from  the  grey  house  on  the  hill, 
in  those  early  days  of  shame  and  resentment. 

"  You  can't  afford  to  do  that,  sonny,"  he  announced. 
"  Jest  put  it  right  out  of  your  head,  once  and  for  all. 
If  you  was  alone  in  the  world,  I'd  say  skip.  But  you 
ain't.  You  got  to  look  out  for  Mary.  It's  plumb 
foolish  to  talk  about  takin'  her  with  you.  That  would 
be  the  quickest  way  to  send  her  to  the  gutter.  I  know 
it  goes  against  the  grain  to  stay  up  there  with  them 
people,  but  it's  a  derned  sight  better'n  starvin'  to  death 
on  the  streets.  You  jest  stick  it  out.  You  wouldn't 
be  so  crool  as  to  skip  out  and  leave  her  there  for  them 
to  pester  and  bulldoze.  They'd  put  upon  her  terrible. 
They'd  make  a  drudge  of  her,  and  worse'n  that,  maybe. 
You'd  be  a  mortal  coward  to  run  off  and  leave  her,  and 


62  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

you  jest  can't  take  her  with  you.  No,  sirree,  my  boy  I 
You  stick  it  out.  Stand  by  your  guns.  Just  you  wait 
a  few  years.  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about.  You 
see,  I  run  away  when  I  was  fifteen  and  went  to  sea.  I 
wished  a  thousand  times  I  hadn't,  'cause  my  step-father 
was  nasty  mean  to  my  sisters  and  my  mother." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on :  "  You 
wait  a  few  years,  and  then  you  can  tell  'em  to  go  to 
hell."  After  a  few  reflective  pulls  at  his  pipe,  he 
vouchsafed :  "  And,  mind  you,  Eric,  there  is  such  a 
place  as  hell." 

Eric,  at  sixteen,  was  as  handsome  a  lad  as  you'd  see 
in  a  week's  journey.  He  was  growing  with  a  steadiness 
that  promised  a  good  six  feet  at  man's  estate,  and  he 
was  as  straight  and  as  strong  as  a  young  sapling,  and 
as  lithe  and  graceful  as  an  Indian.  He  excelled  at  all 
the  games  in  which  strength,  agility  and  quick-witted- 
ness  were  paramount.  In  baseball,  football,  skating, 
racing  and  sailing  he  was  a  leader  because  he  was  an 
adept;  because,  while  fearless,  he  was  never  headstrong; 
while  conscious  of  his  natural  superiority,  he  was  not 
arrogant.  It  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  step  aside  to 
give  a  less  accomplished  friend  the  chance  to  carry  off 
honours  that  might  easily  have  been  his.  This  trait  did 
not  go  unrecognised,  nor  was  it  unappreciated  by  his 
companions.  An  extremely  umcommon  condition 
marked  this  attitude  toward  him  on  all  occasions:  in 
stead  of  boasting  of  their  own  prowess,  they  freely  ad 
mitted  that  "  Eric  Midthorne  could  do  better  than  that 
if  he  half  tried."  Nor  was  there  the  faintest  touch  of 
jealousy  or  envy  in  their  summing-up  of  his  deeds. 

The  gentle,  pleasant  ways  of  the  Southland  were 
strong  in  him;  he  was  prone  to  resent  an  affront  with 
vigour,  and  as  quick  to  repent.  The  hot  blood  in  his 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR        63 

veins  was  hard  to  control,  but  he  always  had  the  better 
of  it.  There  was  no  indignity  so  grave  that  he  could 
not  deffect  it  without  losing  his  temper  entirely.  He 
was  afraid  of  the  shadow  that  stalked  beside  him:  the 
shadow  he  had  inherited.  If  others  knew  the  story 
of  his  antecedents,  they  were  generous  enough  to  keep 
the  knowledge  to  themselves.  In  all  the  years  he  lived 
in  Corinth,  no  one  outside  his  own  family,  the  Pres- 
breys  and  old  Jabez,  spoke  to  him  of  his  father  and 
mother.  He  knew  that  they  knew,  and  he  was  deeply 
sensible  of  their  well-meant  restraint.  Their  kindly 
reticence  had  a  sting,  however;  there  was  no  minute  in 
his  life  that  his  pride  was  not  being  hurt  by  the  knowl 
edge  that  they  were  being  generous. 

He  was  in  the  high-school  of  Corinth,  a  leader  in  his 
classes  as  well  as  in  the  sports  of  the  season.  In  two 
years  he  would  enter  Harvard.  Mary,  quite  the  pret 
tiest  girl  in  town,  was  his  pride  and  joy,  and  constant 
care.  She  was  gay,  volatile,  and  deeply  sensitive  to 
the  approach  of  slights  and  criticism,  from  which,  when 
they  came,  she  was  quick  to  recover.  She  had  him  to 
lean  upon,  to  look  up  to  in  case  of  trouble,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  eternal  feminine  in  her  took  advan 
tage  of  that  very  stable  support. 

Chetwynd  was  in  Harvard,  where  he  was  trying  for 
the  crew  and  the  eleven,  and  for  very  little  else.  If 
Eric  had  entertained  the  hope  that  he  might  grow  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  "  thrash  "  his  bully  of  a  ^ 
cousin,  he  was  likely  to  be  disappointed.  Chetwynd 
was  a  perfect  young  giant:  he  was  the  real  and  visible 
lord  of  "  The  Giant's  Castle."  There  was  no  gain 
saying  that.  To  the  surprise  of  everyone, —  his  father 
in  particular, —  the  indolent  boy  developed  into  a 
rugged,  towering  mass  of  muscle  and  endurance.  In 


64  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

his  twentieth  year,  he  stood  well  over  six  feet,  and  in 
his  rowing  togs  tipped  the  beam  at  180, —  which 
seemed  to  be  just  what  was  wanted  at  Harvard. 

Can  you  picture  Chetwynd?  Is  not  your  imagina 
tion  strong  enough  to  see  him  in  all  his  physical  glory  ? 
Have  you  any  doubts  as  to  his  attitude  toward  the  lesser 
physiques  of  Corinth?  Given,  a  boy  who  has  had 
arrogance  as  a  birthright,  snobbishness  as  a  product, 
and  moral  stealth  as  a  necessity:  add  two  years  of 
athletic  triumph  at  Harvard,  and  you  have  Chetwynd. 

He  went  in  for  boxing  and  punching  the  bag.  This 
was  advised  by  his  trainers.  In  college  there  were  stal 
warts  who  could  maul  him  with  impunity  —  and  science, 
—  because  Chetwynd  really  lacked  moral  stamina,  but 
when  he  got  back  home  for  the  summer  vacation  or 
the  holidays,  he  revelled  in  a  perfect  whirl  of  boxing- 
glove  victories.  It  was  never  quite  fair  to  hit  Chet 
wynd  hard,  but  it  was  an  education  to  be  slammed  vig 
orously  by  this  elegant  expert. 

"  You've  got  to  learn  how  to  take  it  some  time," 
was  his  usual  response  to  their  objections,  "  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  Be  a  man !  " 

Eric  came  in  for  some  sound  drubbings  in  the 
name  of  science.  He  was  slighter  and  not  so  tall  as 
his  cousin,  but  he  was  gamer  than  the  rest  of  the  boys 
who  "  put  on  the  gloves  "  with  the  magnificent  Sopho 
more.  While  Eric  knew  little  of  boxing  as  it  is  taught, 
he  could  stand  punishment  for  the  sport  of  the  game  — 
and  he  could  inflict  it,  too. 

More  often  than  not,  Chetwynd  was  compelled  to  re 
mind  him,  in  the  thick  of  combat,  that  if  he  couldn't 
box  like  a  gentleman  and  not  like  a  murderer,  he  would 
not  "  take  him  on  "  again.  Whereupon  Eric,  consid 
erably  depressed  and  hurt,  would  lose  much  of  his  fierce- 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR        65 

ness,  and,  as  a  result,  received  a  lesson  entirely  satis 
factory  to  Chetwynd. 

"  Oh,  if  I  was  only  big  enough ! "  the  boy  cried  time 
and  again  to  old  Jabez,  in  announcing  the  result  of  his 
most  recent  contest. 

"  You'll  grow,  sonny,"  mused  Jabez.  "  He's  a  cow 
ard  at  heart,  and  if  you  wasn't  so  derned  sensitive  you 
could  put  it  all  over  him." 

One  day,  toward  the  close  of  the  summer  vacation, 
Eric  succeeded  in  drawing  blood  from  Chetwynd's  nose, 
and  in  the  fusillade  that  followed,  landed  a  blow  which 
discoloured  the  big  boy's  eyes  —  a  most  ignominious 
illumination.  Chetwynd,  in  wild  rage,  grappled  with 
his  lighter  antagonist,  and,  hurling  him  to  the  ground, 
beat  him  unmercifully,  all  the  time  calling  him  a  mur 
derer's  son, —  and  even  worse. 

Eric,  as  usual,  carried  his  tale  of  woe  to  the  old  sea 
man.  He  was  bitterly  lamenting  his  unhappy  position 
in  the  Blagden  family,  and  the  insults  he  was  forced 
to  endure,  when  a  stranger  appeared  on  the  scene. 

It  was  a  warm  September  day,  and  they  were  sitting 
on  the  bench  under  the  shade  trees  just  inside  the  gates 
to  the  Park.  Eric  was  nursing  a  bruised  cheek  and  a 
twisted  elbow.  He  had  experienced  some  difficulty  in 
evading  his  sister  and  Joan  Bright,  the  one  girl  in 
Corinth  who  held  an  undisputed  place  in  his  loyal  young 
heart.  They  were  playing  croquet  on  the  lawn,  and 
he,  in  shame-faced  defeat,  had  been  obliged  to  crawl 
over  a  back  fence  on  leaving  the  cellar — (where  the 
boxing  contests  took  place), —  in  order  to  avoid  a  meet 
ing  and  certain  explanations.  He  would  have  given 
much  to  be  able  to  stride  before  Joan  Bright,  a  victor 
over  the  bully  in  whom,  for  reasons  inexplicable  to  Eric, 
she  professed  to  have  a  marked  interest.  Joan,  by  the 


66  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

way,  was  the  daughter  of  Judge  Bright,  not  quite  fif 
teen  and  amazingly  pretty. 

But,  I  am  on  the  point  of  digressing.  It  really 
doesn't  matter  about  Joan  at  this  particular  juncture. 
She  will  come  in  later,  very  handily,  I'm  sure.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  repeat  that,  by  skilful  dodging,  he 
managed  to  skirt  the  lawn  without  coming  face  to 
face  with  the  girls,  and  reached  the  friendly  bench  on 
which  he  and  Jabez  were  found  by  the  stranger  I  came 
so  near  to  overlooking.  Which  would  have  been  a  de 
plorable  oversight,  as  he  is  to  have  a  most  important 
part  in  the  unravelling  of  this  tale. 

He  was  a  stocky,  well-put-up  sort  of  man  with  a 
singularly  hard  and  forbidding  face,  recently  shaved; 
his  cold  grey  eyes  were  set  far  back  in  his  head  and 
were  shaded  by  straight,  bushy  brows  of  black.  His 
mouth  was  wide  and  rather  sinister  in  its  expression. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  a  smile  in  its  corners,  but 
not  a  smile  of  mirth;  rather  one  of  derision.  Eric's 
first  glimpse  of  him  came  when  he  happened  to  turn 
his  eyes,  as  if  urged  by  an  impulse  that  was  far  from 
voluntary,  in  the  direction  of  the  watch-house  by  the 
gate.  The  stranger,  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  smoking 
a  short  pipe,  was  leaning  in  the  doorway,  idly  surveying 
the  two  on  the  bench.  The  boy  stared  for  a  moment, 
the  words  dying  on  his  lips. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  a  human  being, 
other  than  old  Jabez,  about  the  little  house.  He  was 
at  once  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  stranger  was  quite 
at  home  and  on  familiar  terms  with  the  gate-keeper. 

Eric  never  knew  why  it  was,  but  he  suddenly  found 
himself  contrasting  this  hard-featured  individual  and 
the  ascetic,  pious-eyed  tormentor  of  his  soul,  the  ex- 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR        67 

cellent  Mr.  Presbrey.  He  was  afterward  to  enjoy  the 
humour  of  that  ludicrous  comparison. 

"  Oh,"  said  old  Jabez,  with  a  start,  "  that's  my  son, 
Eric.  He's  stopping  in  town  for  a  week  or  two,  so's 
he  can  come  over  to  spend  his  vacation  with  me.  Adam, 
come  here  and  shake  hands  with  my  young  friend,  Mr. 
Eric  Midthorne." 

The  man  came  forward,  extending  his  hand.  A  half- 
smile  grew  in  his  weather-beaten  face. 

"  Glad  to  meet  you,"  said  he.  His  voice  was  hard 
and  unmusical,  but  friendly. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Eric,  as  they  shook  hands. 
Adam  Carr's  hand  was  soft  but  firm.  It  was  hardly 
what  Eric  expected.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had 
known  nothing  but  hard  labour. 

"  Father  says  you  and  he  are  great  friends.  It's 
very  good  of  you  to  come  and  cheer  him  up  as  you  do." 
His  manner  was  tender,  but  his  voice  and  eyes  hard  as 
flint,  if  the  metaphor  is  permissible. 

Old  Jabez  chuckled.  "  I  reckon  he  gets  something 
for  his  trouble,  Adam.  I  fill  his  brain  chuck  full  of 
hair-raisin'  lies.  He'd  oughter  make  a  grand  novel 
writer,  if  he  can  jest  remember  all  I  tell  him." 

"  You  surely  don't  believe  all  my  dad  tells  you,  do 
you  ?  "  said  Adam,  removing  his  pipe  to  grin  the  better. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Eric  promptly.  "  He  always  tells 
us  when  they're  not  true." 

"  That's  more  than  he  ever  did  at  home,"  said  Adam, 
with  a  sly  wink. 

"  Are  you  a  sailor?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Not  a  regular  sailor,"  said  the  other  deliberately. 
"  I've  been  a  little  of  everything  in  my  time.  It  don't 
pay  to  stick  to  any  one  thing  too  long.  You  get  ia 


68  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  rut,  and  life's  a  poor  job  if  you  stay  in  the  rut  so  long 
that  you  don't  feel  like  making  the  effort  to  get  out  of 
it.  Been  in  a  scrap  with  somebody  ?  "  he  asked,  eyeing 
Eric's  bruise. 

"  Just  a  friendly  boxing  match,"  said  Eric,  with  a 
quick  glance  at  Jabez. 

,      "  Feller  much  too   big  for  him,"   remarked   Jabez. 
"  His  cousin.     A  dirt  mean  college  chap." 

Adam's  hard,  mirthless  smile  returned.  "  Do  you 
know  much  about  boxing?  "  Eric  confessed  his  igno 
rance  of  the  finer  points.  "  I'll  give  you  a  few  instruc 
tions,  if  you'd  like  'em,"  said  Adam  Carr,  a  strange  light 
coming  into  his  eyes.  "  I  can  show  you  a  few  things 
that  will  jolt  this  chap  so's  he  won't  get  over  the  sur 
prise  for  a  week." 

Eric  jumped  at  the  chance.  "  I'll  borrow  the 
gloves,"  he  cried. 

"  All  right,"  said  Adam,  sitting  down  and  com 
placently  relighting  his  pipe.  "  We'll  begin  to-mor 
row  morning.  I'll  be  here  for  a  week.  Can  you  come 
to  my  room  in  the  Massasoit  House  ?  " 

The  next  morning  Eric  appeared  with  the  gloves. 
Every  day  for  a  week,  he  visited  Adam  Carr's  room 
in  the  cheap  water-front  hotel.  The  man's  skill  with 
the  gloves  was  a  revelation  to  the  boy.  Chetwynd  was 
the  merest  novice  in  comparison.  Try  as  he  would, 
I  Eric  could  not  break  through  his  guard,  nor  could  he, 
in  all  his  wild  clumsiness,  dispel  the  calm  indifference 
that  marked  his  manner.  Adam  was  as  light  as  a 
feather,  and  as  quick  as  a  cat,  despite  his  stocky  frame 
and  phlegmatic  bearing.  Time  and  again,  the  boy 
would  stop,  panting,  to  grin  sheepishly  and  bewail  the 
fact  that  he  could  make  no  impression  on  his  adversary. 

"  You're  doing  splendidly,"  said  Adam,  without  so 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR    69 

much  as  a  quickening  of  the  breath.  "  The  main  point 
is  this:  I  can't  hit  you  as  easily  as  I  did  in  the  begin 
ning.  iYou're  learning  how  to  take  care  of  yourself. 
You're  managing  to  keep  cool,  and  that's  the  chief 
thing  in  boxing.  You  are  sidestepping  and  ducking 
very  neatly, —  something  you  couldn't  do  at  all  in  the 
beginning.  I  don't  wonder  your  cousin  knocked  your 
block  off.  Now,  I'll  begin  to  show  you  a  few  tricks 
at  the  game,  a  few  punches.  You  won't  learn  'em  very 
thoroughly  while  I'm  here,  but  you'll  have  'em  well 
enough  to  upset  your  cousin  in  good  shape.  There's 
one  thing  to  guard  against:  don't  let  him  rush  in  and 
clinch.  He's  too  big  and  strong  for  you.  He'd  mur 
der  you  in  a  wrestling  match.  Keep  dancing  away  all 
the  time.  Get  him  rattled,  get  him  mad." 

Two  days  after  Adam  Carr's  departure  from  Cor 
inth,  Eric,  in  the  presence  of  half-a-dozen  envious  boys 
who  had  suffered  ignominy  at  Chetwynd's  hands,  very 
effectually  humiliated  his  big  and  raging  cousin.  He 
hit  him  at  will,  successfully  evading  the  returns  that 
•were  meant  to  lay  him  out,  kept  out  of  clinches,  and 
cleverly  outboxed  the  cock-of-the-walk.  No  greater 
insult  could  have  been  offered  to  Chetwynd  than  this. 
He  returned  to  Cambridge  fully  a  week  earlier  than  he 
had  intended,  much  to  the  surprise  of  his  parents,  who, 
somehow,  rejoiced  in  a  certain  profound  thoughtful- 
ness  that  came  over  their  son. 

Eric  was  not  a  boaster.  He  took  his  triumph  over 
Chetwynd  with  becoming  grace.  "  It's  nothing  to 
brag  about,"  he  explained  to  his  friends.  "  That's 
only  once  for  me.  Just  think  how  many  times  he  has 
whaled  me."  Nevertheless,  he  had  come  upon  a  new 
joy  in  living.  His  heart  was  lighter.  His  victory 
may  have  increased  Chetwynd's  hatred,  but  it  also 


70  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

served  to  create  a  wholesome  respect  in  that  young  gen 
tleman's  breast.  There  was  something  in  that. 

There  was  a  dense  atmosphere  of  mystery  surround 
ing  Adam  Carr.  Eric  was  unable  to  penetrate  it,  and 
he  could  obtain  no  light  from  the  man's  father.  Old 
Jabez  was  resolutely  non-committal.  He  would  shake 
his  head  over  Eric's  eager  questions,  and  answer  eva 
sively  when  driven  to  a  corner. 

"  Now,  don't  pester  me  any  more  about  Adam,"  he 
finally  exploded,  when  Mary  added  her  inquiries  to 
those  of  her  brother.  "  What  business  is  it  of  yours 
what  business  he's  in?  It's  an  honest  business,  and  it 
ain't  prize-fighting,  either." 

"  How  did  he  learn  so  much  about  boxing? "  de 
manded  the  persistent  pupil. 

Jabez  glared.  "  From  his  father !  "  he  roared.  "  I 
learned  him  all  he  knows  about  it." 

"  Oh,  rats ! "  scoffed  Eric,  not  at  all  impolitely. 

'*  Oh,  Uncle  Jabe !  "  added  Mary  reproachfully. 

"Do  you  mean  to  call  me  a  liar?  "  gasped  the  an 
cient. 

"  No,  indeed,"  cried  both  of  them  in  a  breath. 

"  Well,  see  that  you  don't,"  muttered  he,  very  un 
comfortable.  "  Adam's  business  is  his  business,  just 
you  bear  that  in  mind." 

They  were  not  to  see  Adam  Carr  again  for  more  than 
a  year,  nor  were  they  to  hear  of  him.  He  had  sunk 
back  into  the  void  from  which  he  emerged  so  unex 
pectedly  on  that  warm  September  day. 

With  Adam  temporarily  out  of  the  way,  we  can  de 
vote  our  time  and  attention  to  an  infinitely  more  at 
tractive  creature  —  Joan  Bright.  Joan  was  an  only 
child.  As  a  rule,  an  only  child  is  not  popular  outside 
his  or  her  immediate  family.  Somehow,  we  have  a  prej- 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR    71 

udice  against  an  "  only  child."  I  daresay  the  grudge 
is  atmospheric,  and  comes  from  the  fact  that  we  our 
selves  have  never  enjoyed  the  exclusive  privilege  of 
being  an  only  child.  With  Joan  Bright,  this  phase 
of  antagonism  did  not  hold  good:  she  was  adored  by 
everyone.  No  one  thought  of  criticising  her  for  being 
a  petted,  indulged  "  only  child."  It  really  wasn't  be 
cause  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  very  distinguished  gen 
tleman,  the  Honourable  Oswald  Bright  of  Upper  Corinth 
and  the  Commonwealth  at  large.  Not  at  all.  A  great 
many  people  did  not  like  Judge  Bright,  even  though 
they  respected  him.  He  had  made  a  multitude  of  ene 
mies  by  administering  justice  as  it  is  meant  to  be  ad 
ministered.  You  should  not  be  asked  to  like  a  judge 
who  has  ruled  against  you.  But  you  would  have  liked 
Joan,  you  would  have  adored  her.  Everyone  else  did, 
and  you  could  not  possibly  have  been  an  exception. 

Judge  Bright  —  sometimes  called  "  His  Honour 
Bright" — was  no  longer  involved  in  the  adjudication 
of  local  disputes.  He  had  gone  beyond  that  some 
years  ago.  To-day  he  was  one  of  the  justices  in  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  State,  and  there  was  some  talk, 
—  in  Corinth,  at  least,- —  of  a  seat  on  the  United  States 
Supreme  bench  when  he  had  become  too  old  for  active 
service  in  his  present  capacity.  But  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  His  home  was  in  Corinth. 

They  called  the  hill  part  of  the  town  Upper  Corinth 
in  these  days,  for  social  as  well  as  geological  reasons. 
If  you  lived  above  Twelfth  street  you  were  of  Upper 
Corinth.  Your  business  would  have  to  be  below  Twelfth 
street.  No  one  but  landscape  gardeners  and  architects 
did  business  above.  (It  was  before  the  day  of  chauf 
feurs  and  vacuum  cleaners.) 

Joan,  whose  mother  died  when  the  girl  was  six,  was 


72  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  particular  and  devoted  friend  of  Mary  Midthorne, 
although  nearly  two  years  her  senior.  Two  more 
lovely,  loveable  girls  could  not  well  be  imagined,  much 
less  created.  Both  were  fair  to  look  upon,  slim,  proud, 
aristocratic,  yet  simple-hearted  and  unspoiled.  They 
were  dark-eyed  —  but  why  describe  them  now  ?  They 
are  half-grown  children,  mere  prophecies  of  woman 
hood.  We  can  only  say  that  they  were  adorably  pretty, 
and  pray  that  they  may  not  out-grow  their  charms, 
as  so  many  do.  If  they  are  as  lovely  when  they  grow 
up, —  as  they  will  long  before  this  tale  is  ended, —  it 
may  be  worth  while  for  me  to  describe  them  and  for  you 
to  contemplate  them  without  reference  to  the  old  saying 
which  condemns  a  fair  child  to  unattractive  maturity. 

Joan  was  shy.  Few  pretty  girls  are  shy.  They  may 
be  bashful  but  not  shy.  There  is  quite  a  distinction. 
Joan  was  not  bashful,  which  is  the  same  thing  as  saying 
she  was  not  clumsy  or  awkward.  She  was  perfectly 
sure  of  herself,  possessed  a  certain  amount  of  poise, 
and  had  an  air.  You  may  ask,  then,  why  she  is  de 
picted  as  shy.  Why  is  the  pet  deer  that  feeds  com 
placently  from  your  hand  shy?  Not  because  it  is 
afraid  of  you.  You  wouldn't  speak  of  a  cow  as  a 
shy  creature.  The  deer  is  shy  because  it  is  high-strung, 
delicate,  sensitive.  Well,  Joan  was  like  the  deer. 

She  was  the  apple  of  her  father's  eye.  She  held  his 
heart-strings  in  those  slender  fingers  of  hers,  and  she 
drew  them  so  gently  that  he  never  suspected  he  was 
being  led  whither  she  willed.  He  quite  approved  of  her 
friendship  for  the  Midthorne  children,  although  he  was 
in  full  possession  of  their  lamentable  history.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Horace  Blagden's  appointment  as  guard 
ian  of  the  children  had  been  made  in  Judge  Bright's 
court  before  his  ascendency  to  the  Supreme  bench.  He 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR        73 

not  only  knew  the  history  of  the  children  but  he  sym 
pathised  with  them.  He  had  been  very  fond  of  Mary 
Blagden,  and  he  had  liked  Phil  Midthorne.  But,  what 
may  be  more  to  the  point,  he  was  aware  of  the  hand 
some  bequest  which  Horace  controlled  as  guardian. 

It  has  already  been  hinted  that  Eric  was  interested 
in  the  Judge's  daughter.  He  had  known  Joan  Bright 
since  the  first  days  of  his  residence  in  Corinth,  and  for 
just  that  length  of  time  he  had  been  her  devoted,  but 
diffident  adorer.  It  began  at  the  age  of  six,  when  he 
performed  for  her  especial  benefit  such  deeds  of  valour 
as  standing  on  his  head  or  hands  —  (chiefly  on  the  back 
of  his  neck  or  his  ear),  turning  somersaults,  walking 
fence  rails, —  we've  all  gone  to  such  lengths  to  pro 
duce  an  effect  on  the  first  lady  of  our  heart.  As  time 
wore  on,  he  became  more  enamoured  but  less  valiant. 
When  he  was  sixteen,  he  was  positively  timorous.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  backward  so  far  as  other  girls 
were  concerned;  no  one  was  more  at  ease,  more  cock 
sure  of  himself,  more  debonair.  But  with  Joan  —  ah, 
well!  It  is  an  ancient  affliction.  No  man  is  complete 
in  himself  unless  he  has  had  this  disease  and  the  measles 
—  and  recovered  from  both. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  she,  with  all  the  perversity 
of  her  sex,  denied  him  the  most  because  she  liked  him 
the  best.  Even  young  girls  are  capable  of  this.  It's 
what  makes  women  of  them  —  the  kind  of  women  we 
go  the  farthest  to  please  and  to  whom  we  are  always 
grateful  if  the  road  is  tortuous.  Joan  treated  him 
most  cavalierly  at  times.  There  was  a  good  and  suf 
ficient  reason,  one  affected  by  all  girls  of  spirit:  the 
tender  suspicion,  slyly  encouraged,  that  she  was  in  love 
with  him. 

Of  course,  she  explained  to  herself,  it  was  not  at  all 


74  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

true,  and  she  went  to  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  convince 
herself  of  the  fact, —  to  such  pains,  I  may  say,  that 
he  also  was  convinced.  She  was  so  confidently  heart 
less  in  the  matter  that  she  rather  enjoyed  the  sensation 
of  being  a  dear  friend  to  his  sister.  It  is  a  great  com 
fort  to  be  devoted  to  the  sister  of  the  man  you  despise. 

Eric  despaired.  Manfully,  of  course,  and  in  secret. 
His  pride  stood  in  the  way  of  open  attention  to  her. 
He  never  danced  with  her  more  than  once  in  an  evening ; 
he  seldom  skated  with  her.  But  his  heart  was  sore,  and 
he  was  jealous. 

He  was  grateful  to  her  for  the  frank  affection  she 
bestowed  on  Mary.  It  proved  Mary's  position,  and 
he  cared  more  for  that  than  for  anything  else  in  the 
world.  She  could  hold  up  her  head  in  Corinth  when 
she  walked  with  Joan  Bright.  As  for  himself,  he 
dumbly  realised  that  Joan  Bright  could  never  be  more 
to  him  than  the  friend  of  his  sister;  he  could  ask  for 
nothing  more,  being  the  son  of  a  slayer  of  men.  Was 
she  not  the  daughter  of  a  judge  of  men? 

To  be  sure,  Mary  was  cautioned  by  her  aunt  not 
to  put  evil  ideas  into  the  head  of  the  innocent  Joan! 
She  had  a  selfish  motive  in  preserving  Judge  Bright's 
daughter  from  contamination.  Joan  was  an  unwitting 
candidate  for  the  hand  of  Chetwynd.  The  alliance,  it 
seems,  was  desired  by  Horace.  Neither  Joan  nor  Chet 
wynd  was  consulted.  Nor  Judge  Bright,  for  that  mat 
ter.  The  Blagdens  would  see  to  all  that  when  Chet 
wynd  was  a  little  older. 

Mary  was  permitted  to  read  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  " 
when  she  was  twelve.  Her  aunt  professed  a  holy  horror 
of  the  letter  A,  though  just  why  she  thought  of  it  in 
connection  with  a  mere  child  —  or  even  an  unmarried 
person, —  is  not  quite  clear. 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  ADAM  CARR        75 

An  ordinary  bomb,  aimed  at  the  smug  Blagden  se 
renity,  in  all  likelihood  would  have  created  no  percepti 
ble  disturbance,  but  one  day  there  came  an  explosion 
that  not  only  startled  Horace  and  his  wife  out  of  their 
complacency  but  quite  upset  them  for  all  time  to  come. 

Chetwynd  was  expelled,— dishonourably  expelled, — 
from  Harvard! 


CHAPTER  V 

SEAWARD 

IT  was  said  that  Horace  aged  ten  years  in  less  than  a 
•week.  The  shock  came  about  the  time  of  the  Easter 
vacation,  and  fell  from  a  clear  sky.  Chetwynd  and  an 
other  youth  had  been  found  guilty  of  indiscretions  that 
could  not  be  overlooked  by  the  powers  at  Harvard. 
The  true  story  never  quite  came  to  light,  but  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  two  chorus  girls,  dis 
graceful  orgies,  voluptuous  dances  and  a  brawl  in  which 
one  of  the  young  women  was  severely  beaten. 

Chetwynd  was  bundled  off  to  Europe,  with  his  mother, 
to  stay  until  the  thing  blew  over,  or,  at  least,  until 
Horace  could  clear  his  perturbed  brain  of  the  some 
thing  that  seemed  to  clog  it.  Besides,  there  were  the 
ugly  newspaper  accounts  to  be  lived  down;  that  is  to 
say,  the  stories  that  were  printed  in  the  Boston  and 
New  York  papers.  It  goes  without  saying  that  the 
Corinth  Courier  ignored  the  matter.  There  was  not 
a  line  of  it  in  the  columns  of  the  local  paper.  Horace 
Blagden  owned  the  publisher  of  the  Courier,  body  and 
soul,  as  well  as  considerable  of  the  stock  in  his  news 
paper. 

Todville  unhesitatingly  assisted  in  giving  voice  to 
all  the  tales,  true  and  untrue,  that  came  to  notice. 
There  was  general  rejoicing  among  the  inmates  of  the 
Seaman's  Home,  and  along  the  water-front.  In  the 
bar-rooms  and  grogshops  there  were  contests  between 
all  who  struggled  to  create  the  coarsest  jests  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  great  and  spotless  man  of  Corinth.  If 

-  76 


SEAWARD  77 

he  could  have  heard  them,  the  subject  of  these  ribald 
quips  would  have  shrivelled  within  himself,  and  groaned. 

Eric  and  Mary  were  wise  enough  to  hold  their 
tongues,  and  to  curb  a  very  natural  elation.  From 
afar  off,  they  watched  the  comings  and  goings  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Presbrey,  and  somehow  their  keen  inner  con 
sciousness  told  them  that  he,  too,  in  his  own  way,  re 
joiced  in  the  downfall  of  Chetwynd,  who  had  long  been 
a  thorn  in  his  side;  a  thorn  he  could  not  well  afford  to 
extract,  but  must  endure  in  patient  humility, —  as,  for 
instance,  the  Hindoo  fanatic  suffers  himself  to  lie  on 
his  bed  of  pointed  spikes. 

In  course  of  time  Mrs.  Blagden  and  Chetwynd  re 
turned  to  Corinth.  The  summer  was  waning  and  raw, 
fog-laden  winds  were  sweeping  in  from  the  sea.  All 
summer  long,  when  other  men  were  sweltering  in  the 
heat,  Horace  Blagden's  heart  was  feeling  the  raw,  chill 
winds  of  the  sea ;  there  was  no  warmth  in  the  world  for 
him.  Something  had  frozen  within  him,  and  it  would 
never  thaw.  He  went  to  Boston  to  meet  the  returning 
yoyagers ;  he  came  back  with  them  to  Corinth,  outwardly 
as  proud  and  confident  as  ever,  but  inwardly  as  desolate 
and  humble  as  the  lowliest  of  Lazaruses. 

The  sore  that  hurt  him  most  was  the  one  that  opened 
every  time  he  thought  of  Mary  Blagden's  children. 
Why  could  it  not  have  been  one  of  them  instead  of  Chet 
wynd?  Why  should  an  ironical  malevolent  fate  have 
led  his  son  into  the  very  mire  he  had  prescribed  for 
hers?  Horace  could  not  understand  why  God  had 
done  this  thing  to  him,  while  Mary's  son  was  so  avail 
able. 

Corinth  received  the  wayward  youth  without  reserve. 
Houses  and  arms  were  opened  to  him,  just  as  Horace 
expected;  and  the  tactless  assistant  paying  teller  in 


78  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  bank  who  politely  asked  if  Chetwynd  was  to  return 
to  Harvard  next  week,  was  the  one  who  lost  his  place 
in  order  that  the  president's  son  might  begin  his  career 
as  a  banker  —  a  little  earlier  than  his  father  had  in 
tended,  to  be  sure,  but  in  accordance  with  a  destiny  he 
had  personally  arranged.  The  tactless  teller  assisted 
fate  to  a  certain  extent  by  putting  the  question,  for 
Mr.  Blagden  was  in  somewhat  of  a  quandary  as  to  how 
he  could  make  room  for  Chetwynd  without  removing  a 
competent  employe.  Of  course,  it  was  quite  obvious 
that  a  competent  employe"  would  never  have  asked  if 
Chetwynd  were  to  return  to  Harvard.  It  made  it  very 
easy  to  remove  him. 

Chetwynd  rather  objected  to  going  into  the  bank 
at  first.  He  was  quite  sure  he  could  make  the  crew  at 
Yale,  if  the  Governor  would  only  go  down  to  New 
Haven  and  "  fix  it  up  "  with  the  heads  of  the  institu 
tion.  It  did  not  enter  his  head  that  a  man  so  powerful 
as  Horace  Blagden  could  fail  to  influence  the  officials 
of  any  college,  in  spite  of  the  Harvard  episode.  But 
Horace  said  he  hoped  he  would  never  be  called  upon  to 
resort  to  anything  so  desperate  as  the  sending  of  a  son 
of  his  to  Yale ! 

So  Chetwynd  began  his  career  as  a  banker  sullenly, 
and  in  defiance  of  what  he  considered  his  own  best  in 
terests.  He  started  a  moustache,  and  insisted  that  it 
was  his  right  to  smoke  cigarettes,  having  taken  a  course 
in  the  art  at  college. 

Besides  cigarettes  and  athletics,  Chetwynd  had  aroused 
in  himself  the  ambition  to  become  an  architect.  It 
struck  him  as  rather  humiliating  that  he  should  have  to 
give  up  his  chosen  profession  and  go  to  work  in  a  bank. 
His  father,  as  a  compromise,  offered  to  procure  private 
instruction  if  he  cared  to  continue  the  work  begun  at 


SEAWARD  79 

college,  but  he  would  have  to  assimilate  it  after  banking 
hours. 

"  Corinth  is  no  place  for  an  architect  who  really 
wants  to  get  anywhere,"  protested  Chetwynd. 

"  The  town  is  growing,  my  boy,"  remarked  his  fa 
ther. 

"  New  York  is  the  only  place,"  grumbled  the  son. 
"  I  could  do  something  there." 

"  I  fancy  Corinth  will  do  for  you  to  practise  on," 
said  Horace  grimly.  "  I  think,  in  the  end,  you  will 
see  the  advantage  of  learning  the  banking  business.  A 
Blagden  must  be  at  the  head  of  the  bank,  my  boy.  1 
cannot  live  forever." 

"  Don't  say  that,  father,"  protested  Chetwynd,  with 
a  leer  that  was  meant  to  be  genial. 

"  You  may  take  up  architecture  as  a  side  issue,  if 
you  like,"  said  Horace  patiently.  "  Just  as  other  men 
go  in  for  the  collecting  of  first  editions,  and  so  on.  I 
know  a  successful  merchant  in  Boston  who  devotes  his 
spare  time  to  the  painting  of  portraits,  just  as  a  recre 
ation,  don't  you  see.  It  is  — " 

"  I  think   I'd  like  to   be   a  banker   for   recreation, 
father,  and  an  architect  for  keeps." 
i      "  You  will  find  I  am  right,"  said  Horace  finally. 

'*  Yes,  sir.  You  always  are,"  agreed  his  son  obedi 
ently. 

Along  toward  the  middle  of  the  ensuing  May,  the 
County  board  decided  to  erect  a  new  court-house  in 
Corinth.  With  calm  New  England  zeal,  they  prefaced 
the  ultimate  decision  by  offering  a  medal  to  the  high- 
school  youth  who  submitted  the  most  artistic  design 
for  the  building,  promising  tKat  the  final  plans  should 
be  based  on  the  successful  candidate's  ideas  by  the 
architect  who  secured  the  contract.  A  day  or  two  after 


80  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  original  announcement  was  made,  the  words  "  or 
any  student  in  Architecture,"  was  inserted  in  the  invi 
tation.  This  was  done  in  order  that  Chetwynd  Blagden 
might  compete. 

The  boys  of  Corinth  high  school  took  to  the  propo 
sition  with  a  zest  that  was  flattering,  but  not  surpris 
ing.  Eric  Midthorne,  a  senior  by  this  time,  had  a 
natural  bent  for  drawing  and  construction.  He,  as  well 
as  Chetwynd,  had  notions  of  becoming  an  architect  and 
builder,  with  the  distinction  that  Eric  was  seriously  in 
earnest,  heart  and  soul.  He  was  to  enter  Harvard  in 
the  fall;  his  interest  in  the  court-house  competition 
was  enhanced  by  the  hope  that  he  might  win,  and 
therefore  go  into  college  with  a  no  uncertain  prestige 
behind  him.  He  worked  faithfully,  diligently  after 
school  hours  on  the  plans,  unhindered  by  the  thought 
of  examinations,  for  he  was  well  up  in  his  studies,  and 
confident.  Other  boys  in  his  class  went  about  the  plans 
half-heartedly,  once  they  learned  that  Eric  was  putting 
his  hand  and  brain  to  the  effort.  They  glumly  agreed 
among  themselves  that  they  would  have  no  chance 
against  him,  and  it  was  pretty  generally  conceded  that 
he  would  carry  off  the  prize,  hands  down. 

Chetwynd  was  allowed  to  go  to  New  York  over  Sat 
urdays  and  Sundays  for  special  instruction.  To  all 
intents  and  purposes,  he  was  vitally  interested  in  the 
effort  to  win.  He  must  have  worked  hard  while  in 
the  Metropolis,  for  he  always  looked  tired  and  red- 
eyed  on  his  return  to  Corinth.  On  several  occasions 
he  failed  to  reach  home  before  Monday  night,  but  his 
parents  understood  and  sympathised  when  he  confessed 
that  he  had  worked  all  the  night  before  and  was  so 
exhausted  that  he  overslept  and  missed  the  early  trains. 
He  spent  two  weeks*  vacation  in  New  York  early  in 


SEAWARD  81 

June,  returning  at  the  end  of  that  period,  haggard  and 
pale  from  the  effects  of  over-study.  His  parents  were 
alarmed  but  gratified.  They  liked  the  bull-dog  spirit 
that  moved  him  to  such  splendid  endeavour. 

"  He  will  win,"  pronounced  Horace,  calm  in  a  re 
stored  pride.  "  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  You 
cannot  appreciate  how  pleased  I  am,  Presbrey,  over  his 
determination.  He  has  it  in  him.  Nothing  can  stop 
the  boy  now ;  he  has  found  himself." 

"  He  will  be  a  great  blessing  to  you,  my  dear  friend,** 
said  Mr.  Presbrey.  "  I  have  always  said  that  he  had 
it  in  him,  if  you  remember." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Blagden  thoughtfully,  "  it  was 
for  the  best  that  he  got  away  from  the  evil  influences  at 
college." 

"  I  rej  oice  that  you  are  becoming  reconciled  to  that 
view,  sir.  You  may  recall  my  remarks  at  the  time.  I 
ventured  the  opinion  that — " 

"  Really,  Presbrey,  I  don't  remember  anything  that 
was  said  at  the  time,"  interrupted  Horace  impatiently. 

"  Of  course  not,"  agreed  Mr.  Presbrey  readily. 
"  How  could  you  ?  It  wasn't  to  be  expected  of  you. 
But  you  see  now  that  I  was  right,  I  am  sure.  Out 
of  evil  there  — " 

"  You  can't  imagine  how  happy  his  mother  is,  Pres 
brey,"  said  Horace,  who  had  heard  all  this  before  and 
affected  not  to  hear  it  now. 

"  She  must  be,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey  heartily. 

It  may  be  added  that  Mr.  Presbrey,  despite  his  con 
soling  prophecies,  was  the  most  amazed  man  in  Corinth 
over  the  remarkable  regeneration  of  Chetwynd.  Some 
how,  down  in  his  pious  heart,  he  experienced  difficulty 
in  rejoicing. 

One  Saturday  morning,  a  week  before  the  awarding 


82  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

of  the  prize  for  the  best  design,  Eric,  having  com 
pleted  his  drawings  and  laid  them  away  in  his  room  to 
await  the  time  for  their  presentation  to  the  committee 
of  architects,  invited  Mary  and  Joan  Bright  to  go  for 
a  short  sail  in  the  bay.  He  was  an  adept  at  handling 
a  sail-boat,  confident  but  not  reckless,  and  many  an 
old  seaman  had  complimented  him  on  his  prowess.  He 
had  taken  Mary  and  other  girls  out  beyond  Lord's 
Point  on  numerous  occasions,  but  never  before  had  he 
screwed  up  courage  to  ask  Joan  to  take  a  seat  in  the 
boat.  While  he  gloomily  deplored  his  lack  of  initiative 
in  this  respect,  she,  it  must  be  said,  rather  petulantly, 
but  in  secret,  resented  what  she  chose  to  regard  as  a 
rude  oversight, —  a  slight,  if  you  please. 

To  his  surprise  and  joy,  she  consented  to  go  out 
with  him  on  this  memorable  occasion,  being  in  a  particu 
larly  good  humour  and  unusually  gracious. 

It  was  not  uncommon  for  the  young  people  of  the 
town  to  go  sailing  in  the  placid  little  bay;  no  parent 
objected  if  they  did  not  venture  into  the  open  sea. 
The  bay  was  full  of  fishing-boats,  coming  and  going,  and 
there  was  little  or  no  danger  if  the  weather  was  good. 

At  the  last  minute,  Mrs.  Blagden  refused  to  let  Mar£ 
go,  keeping  her  at  home  on  some  pretext.  Of  course^ 
that  came  near  to  spoiling  the  sport  of  the  morning 
Joan,  however,  arose  in  her  independence,  and  an 
nounced  her  readiness  to  go  out  for  an  hour  without 
Mary. 

"  I'm  glad  I  haven't  an  aunt  to  treat  me  as  she 
treats  you,"  she  said  to  Mary,  and  then  went  off  to  the 
little  pier  with  the  delighted  Eric,  who,  after  all,  was  a 
bit  grateful  to  Aunt  Rena,  although,  in  his  heart,  he 
was  sorry  for  Mary. 


SEAWARD  83 

The  day  was  bright  and  clear,  with  a  fine,  light  wind 
blowing  steadily  from  the  ocean.  They  planned  to  sail 
to  the  Point,  turn  and  cross  the  mouth  of  the  bay  just 
inside  the  swell  of  the  sea,  and  then  come  racing  in 
with  a  fresh  three-quarter  breeze.  In  two  hours  they 
would  be  back  at  the  pier,  where  Mary  was  to  meet 
them. 

Joan  poised  herself  comfortably  on  the  rail.  Her 
cheeks  were  warm  with  excitement  and  her  eyes  danced 
to  the  tune  his  heart  was  singing,  all  unbeknownst  to 
her.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  been  so  happy  as 
now,  and  never  so  self-consciously  stupid.  She  chatted 
gaily,  easily,  while  he,  in  his  exaltation,  responded  so 
inaptly  that  in  time,  forsooth,  he  fell  to  making  hard 
work  of  the  sail  in  order  to  cover  his  confusion. 

He  looked  out  to  sea,  and  into  his  soul  there  came 
the  longing  to  sail  on  forever  with  her,  straight  into  the 
boundless  waste,  where  he  might  rise  to  such  heights 
of  heroism  that  confidence  would  come  to  him,  and 
he  would  not  be  afraid  of  her.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
the  sea,  but  his  heart  quailed  before  that  smooth,  mobile 
cheek  and  those  limpid,  wrathless  eyes.  And  yet  he 
was  ineffably  happy.  Surely  he  had  her  all  to  himself 
now.  But  to  what  purpose? 

Steadily  the  airy  craft  beat  its  way  through  the 
greenish,  glinting  waters  of  the  bay,  heeling,  righting, 
swashing,  sending  its  genial  spray  into  their  faces, 
pointing,  as  a  dog  points, —  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  life 
with  an  instinct  of  its  own.  Joan  dodged  and  shifted 
as  the  boom  swung  over,  laughed  with  glee  when  the 
spray  threatened  her  reefer.  Her  soft  brown  hair 
played  in  the  wind;  the  red  bow  at  her  throat  fluttered 
or  flattened  as  the  wind  ordained ;  her  trim,  slender  body 


84  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

was  braced  against  the  rush  of  air,  active,  alert,  all 
unconscious  of  the  picture  she  made. 

His  head  was  bare.  His  dark  hair  lay  back  from 
his  forehead.  His  eyes  gleamed  with  the  fever  of  ex 
altation.  When  they  were  not  stealing  sly  glances  at 
her,  they  were  set  straight  ahead,  focussed  on  the  dis 
tant  Point  as  if  it  were  a  thing  to  avoid. 

*'  It's  great,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  called  out  to  her. 

"  Splendid ! "  she  sang.     "  I  love  it !     I  love  it ! " 

"  Will  you  come  out  again  ?  " 

She  caught  herself  up.  "  I  don't  know."  As  he  did 
not  press  the  invitation,  she  was  driven  to  the  curt  ques 
tion:  "When?" 

"  Any  day  you  like,"  he  replied  eagerly.  "  Will 
you,  Joan?" 

"  If  your  aunt  will  let  Mary  come,  too,"  she  said, 
mischief  in  her  heart. 

"  Certainly,"  he  acquiesced,  much  too  readily  to  please 
her  vanity. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  how  to  sail  a  boat,  Eric?  " 
she  asked,  so  innocently  that  his  pride  was  hurt  in  turn. 

"  Ain't  I  sailing  her  all  right  to-day  ?  "  he  demanded. 

She  was  instantly  ashamed  of  herself.  "  It  was  mean 
of  me  to  ask  that  question,"  she  cried.  "  Everyone 
knows  you  are  very  skilful,  Eric.  Of  course,  I'm  not 
afraid.  I'll  come  whenever  you  ask  me."  Then,  see 
ing  the  glad  sparkle  in  his  eyes :  "  If  the  weather  is 
fine.  It  would  be  awful  to  be  out  in  a  little  boat  like 
this  if  a  storm  came  up.  Goodness,  what  could  we 
do?" 

"  Beat  for  the  shore  as  fast  as  we  could,"  he  re 
plied  grimly.  "  We  could  get  in  ahead  of  any  storm." 

"  But  suppose  that  the  storm  came  from  the  shore 
and  not  from  the  sea.  What  then  ?  " 


SEAWARD  85 

"  We'd  be  geese  to  let  it  catch  us  far  out.  Oh,  it's 
simple  enough." 

"  If  we  were  geese  we  could  swim  in,"  she  said  gaily. 

"  Sure,"  he  agreed,  and  they  laughed  aloud. 

She  was  silent  for  awhile,  furtively  studying  his  half- 
averted  face.  He  was  bringing  the  boat  around  vith 
her  nose  toward  the  town,  instead  of  following  the 
course  they  had  planned  to  take. 

"  Have  you  completed  the  plans,  Eric  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.     "  They're  off  my  mind." 

"  I  do  hope  you  will  win.  Everyone  says  you  are 
sure  to." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  It  struck  her  that  he  was 
singularly  inattentive.  The  sail  flapped  viciously  and 
the  little  craft  heeled  over  as  the  boom  swung  around. 
!A  vast  shadow  came  swimming  out  over  the  water,  turn 
ing  the  soft  green  to  a  blackish  blue.  The  girl  turned 
her  head  quickly  in  alarm. 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  widening. 

"  Don't  be  nervous,"  he  said  calmly.  "  There's 
plenty  of  time." 

From  the  hills  back  of  Corinth  a  great  wall  of  black 
clouds  was  rushing  out  upon  them,  leaping  higher  and 
higher  against  the  sunlit  opal  sky.  The  very  thing  she 
had  mentioned,  half  in  banter,  had  come  to  pass.  Storm 
clouds  were  indeed  coming  down  from  the  shore,  and 
they  were  ugly,  menacing  ones  at  that. 

Her  remark  had  caused  the  enraptured  boy  to  cast 
a  casual  glance  shoreward.  He  had  seen  then,  for  the 
first  time,  the  rim  of  black  that  capped  the  green  hills, 
and,  without  alarming  her,  he  quickly  altered  the  course 
of  the  boat.  He  knew  that  the  storm  was  close  at 
hand:  one  of  those  swift,  violent  summer  storms  that 
swoop  out  of  nowhere,  it  would  seem,  and  sail  down  to 


86  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  sea,  to  be  lost  or  dissipated  in  the  vast  air  currents 
that  scorn  so  small  a  thing  as  a  land  breeze,  no  matter 
how  fierce  it  may  appear  on  its  native  heath. 

"  You  must  hurry,  Eric,"  cried  the  girl,  dread  in 
her  eyes.  "  Tell  me,  what  can  I  do  to  help  ?  I  am  not 
afraid." 

"  It's  funny  I  never  noticed  it  coming,"  he  muttered 
irrelevantly.  There  was  much  tacking  to  do,  for  the 
wind  had  shifted  and  they  were  still  three  miles  or  more 
from  the  piers.  She  sat,  still  and  tense,  looking  straight 
ahead  into  the  black  banks  after  this,  realising  in  some 
subtle  way  that  it  was  no  time  to  talk. 

They  did  not  reach  the  piers.  Long  before  they 
were  half-way  in,  the  gale  broke  over  the  frail  craft, 
whipping  it  about  as  if  it  were  a  cork.  They  did  not 
reach  the  piers  and  for  a  good  reason. 

Instead,  they  were  going  out  to  sea,  clinging  to  the 
bottom  of  the  overturned  boat,  lashed  and  buffeted  by 
blinding  waves,  and  stung  by  the  cutting  rain.  The 
sea  roared  and  churned  beneath  them,  the  skies  thun 
dered  and  crashed  above,  and  there  was  no  one  near  to 
help  them,  no  one  near  enough  even  to  see  them  in  their 
plight. 

When  the  boat  went  over,  Joan  was  hurled  far  out 
from  its  side.  Eric  was  after  her  in  a  flash,  clasping 
her  in  his  arms  as  she  came  to  the  surface,  gasping  and 
choking.  He  was  a  strong,  courageous  swimmer.  Cry 
ing  out  to  her  to  be  brave  and  calm,  he  struck  out  to 
overtake  the  black,  slim  bottom  of  the  boat,  which  was 
dancing  away  from  them  on  the  waves.  It  was  a  hard, 
almost  hopeless  task,  but  he  struggled  manfully,  finally 
coming  near  enough  to  grasp  the  rudder  with  his  free 
hand.  After  a  while  he  was  able  to  draw  her  up  to  the 


SEAWARD  87 

centre-board.  There  she  clung  with  desperate  strength, 
while  he  set  about  the  hazardous  undertaking  of  re 
trieving  the  long  spare  end  of  a  rope  which  whipped 
about  in  the  sea.  He  released  it  from  its  fastening  with 
his  pocket  knife,  and  then  proceeded  to  lash  it  across 
the  keel  of  the  boat,  looping  it  first  over  one  oar-lock  and 
then  the  other,  all  the  while  climbing  back  and  forth 
over  the  slippery  surface  with  the  agility  and  sureness  of 
a  monkey. 

The  girl  was  in  this  manner  lashed  quite  firmly  to  the 
boat,  and  there  was  little  or  no  likelihood  of  her  slipping 
off  into  the  water  if  a  faintness  seized  her.  After  mak 
ing  her  secure,  he  stayed  himself  in  a  somewhat  similar 
fashion  just  opposite  to  her,  close  enough  to  support 
her  in  case  she  grew  weak  with  despair  and  fear. 

All  this  time  they  had  been  crying  out  words  of  cheer 
to  each  other.  Neither  was  of  faint  heart,  for  they 
were  young  and  full  of  the  right  to  live,  but  they  were 
full  of  fear  and  dread.  They  were  going  out  to  sea. 

"  Someone  will  see  us,"  he  cried,  when  he  could  get 
his  breath.  "  It's  only  a  little  blow.  These  storms 
don't  last  long.  The  sun  will  be  out  in  a  few  min 
utes.  Don't  worry,  Joan.  Mary  knows  we're  out  here, 
1  and  so  do  lots  of  people.  They'll  have  boats  out  in 
less  than  no  time." 

But  the  storm  raged  with  great  fierceness  for  an  hour 
before  breaking,  and  they  were  driven  swiftly,  resist- 
lessly  out  to  sea,  where  the  waves  were  running  high. 
Time  and  again  they  were  almost  completely  submerged. 
The  water-tight  compartments  in  the  bow  and  stern  of 
the  boat  kept  it  afloat.  They  were  in  no  danger  of 
going  to  the  bottom  as  long  as  they  were  not  torn 
bodily  from  their  fastenings.  Each  time  they  were 
swept  under  by  a  great  wave,  his  hand  clasped  her  arm 


88  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

in  a  grip  of  iron;  each  time  that  they  came  through, 
half  choked,  they  looked  wildly  at  each  other  to  be  sure 
that  one  had  not  been  swept  away,  and  each  time  a  dis 
mal  smile  flitted  across  their  faces. 

Eric  turned  his  anxious  gaze  toward  the  distant  town 
whenever  they  rode  high  on  a  wave,  and  each  time  he 
searched  in  vain  for  a  rescuing  craft.  The  town  was  now 
so  far  away  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  out  the  build 
ings  along  the  shore.  The  hills  were  dim  and  indistinct, 
even  in  the  bright  sunlight  that  was  following  the  storm. 
His  face  grew  haggard  with  worry,  his  eyes  wide  with 
despair. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  everybody  ? "  he 
groaned.  "  Mary  must  have  given  the  alarm." 

"  They'll  come,  Eric,"  she  cried  back  tremulously. 
"  They  will  come  soon,  won't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  touching  her  cheek  with  his 
hand.  "  They're  sure  to  come." 

"  It  would  be  awful  to  go  away  out  to  sea  like  this," 
she  whimpered. 

"  It's  my  fault  —  it's  all  my  fault,  Joan,"  he  cried, 
in  anguish.  "  If  anything  should  happen,  it's  my  fault. 
I  am  a  murderer  —  that's  all  I  am." 

"  You  must  not  say  that." 

"  They  said  I'd  be  a  murderer  — " 

"Sh!  Eric!  You  couldn't  help  this.  I  don't  care 
what  they  say.  You  are  brave  and  good  and  true." 

"Have  they  said  it  to  you?"  he  demanded,  turning 
his  red,  water-stung  eyes  upon  her  white  face. 

"  No  one  but  Chetwynd.     I  hate  him." 

"  I  say,"  he  shouted,  suddenly  craning  his  neck  to 
look  far  ahead,  a  thrill  shooting  through  his  icy  body. 
*'  We're  going  straight  toward  Eddy's  Islands.  God 


SEAWARD  89 

may  be  good  to  us,  Joan.  We  may  be  driven  ashore  on 
one  of  them.  I  —  I  thought  we  were  going  due  east. 
I  can  see  the  islands  away  off  there  —  miles  and  miles. 
Oh,  if  we  only  keep  straight  for  them ! " 

Eddy's  Islands  were  two  small  reefs,  twenty  miles  off 
the  coast,  barren,  ugly  things  that  rose  high  in  the  air. 
On  one  of  them  was  a  lighthouse.  A  space  of  two 
miles  or  more  separated  the  reefs,  with  a  strong  current 
driving  between  them.  Big  Eddy  had  the  lighthouse, 
Little  Eddy  was  without  sign  of  life  or  vegetation: 
just  a  low,  forbidding,  sea-washed  plane  of  rock,  full  of 
caves  and  crevasses.  There  was  no  beach  on  either  of 
the  islands,  of  course,  but  the  rocky  formation  sloped 
into  the  water  so  gradually  that  it  was  dangerous  for 
even  small  craft  to  approach  close  to  them. 

At  the  rate  they  were  going,  Eric  calculated  that  two 
hours  would  bring  them  abreast  Eddy's  Islands.  If 
they  passed  to  the  north,  the  light-keeper  would  see 
them.  Joan's  dress  was  white.  If  they  went  to  the 
south,  or  between  the  two,  there  was  small  chance  of 
their  being  seen,  unless  the  keeper  was  watching  the 
sea  closely  with  his  glass.  Their  brightest  hope  lay  in 
the  possibility  that  they  might  be  driven  into  the  shal 
low  waters  covering  the  unseen  approach  to  the  reefs. 
Eric  knew  the  waters  well.  He  had  gone  there  dozens 
of  times  with  the  fishing  boats. 

The  sky  was  now  clear,  and  a  hot  sun  beat  down  upon 
them;  the  storm  was  rollicking  far  ahead  of  them.  A 
steady  wind  from  the  shore  was  blowing,  and  soon  the 
tide  would  come  out.  Waves  still  ran  high,  but  they 
were  not  so  angry  as  they  had  been. 

Eric  could  see  that  the  girl  was  growing  weak  from 
the  strain  and  exposure.  He  was  no  longer  able  to 


90  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

cheer  her  with  his  heartiest  cries.  She  looked  wan  and 
ready  to  give  up  the  struggle  to  keep  her  head  from 
falling  forward,  limp  with  fatigue. 

To  his  despair,  the  current  caught  them  up  and  drew 
them  toward  the  passage  between  the  islands.  He  be 
gan  to  pray.  His  whole  soul  cried  out  to  God,  implor 
ing  Him  to  send  them  onto  the  shoals  where  he  could 
have  a  chance  to  save  the  girl  whose  life  was  more  to  him 
now  than  anything  else  in  all  the  world.  His  own 
strength  and  vitality  were  fast  departing ;  his  limbs  were 
chilled  and  numb,  his  senses  dulled  and  sluggish  with 
the  drug  of  weariness. 

He  could  see  that  they  would  drift  past  the  upper  end 
of  Little  Eddy,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  from  the  visi 
ble  rocks.  The  broad,  heaving  ocean  lay  directly  be 
yond.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  they  had  not  been  observed 
by  the  light-keeper.  Just  as  he  was  in  the  deepest 
despair,  the  impulse  to  cut  loose  from  the  boat  and  try 
for  the  rocks  came  over  him.  He  could  easily  swim  that 
distance  alone,  but  was  his  strength  sufficient  to  do  it 
with  the  almost  dead  weight  of  the  girl  as  a  burden? 

Eric  was  always  quick  to  act.  He  was  cool,  but  he 
was  daring.  The  thought  was  father  to  the  act.  He 
drew  up  his  stiffened  legs  and  began  to  unlace  his  shoes, 
first  rolling  his  trousers  up  to  the  knees.  Kicking  off 
the  heavy  shoes,  he  clambered  over  the  boat  and  set  to 
work  releasing  Joan.  She  was  faint,  but  conscious  of 
his  action. 

"  I'm  going  to  swim  in  with  you,  Joan.  Don't  be 
afraid.  Do  just  as  I  tell  you,  and  we'll  soon  be  safe. 
We'll  be  able  to  wade  after  we  get  within  twenty  yards 
of  the  rock." 

She  followed  his  instructions  to  the  best  of  her  ability, 
and  soon  he  was  struggling  frantically  toward  the  ugly, 


SEAWARD  91 

forbidding  wall  of  rock,  swimming  with  all  the  power 
that  was  left  in  his  racked  young  body.  Many  a 
stronger  swimmer  than  he  would  have  failed  in  the  at 
tempt,  but  a  strange,  unnatural  vigour  came  to  his  aid, 
born  of  pride  and  desperation. 

Just  as  he  realised  that  he  could  not  swim  a  stroke 
farther,  and  the  goal  still  many  yards  away,  his  numb 
feet  struck  against  hard  substance.  He  involuntarily, 
even  recklessly,  allowed  them  to  sink  in  the  hope  of 
touching  bottom. 

He  was  on  the  shelving  rock ! 

Still  there  were  many  yards  to  traverse,  and  he  would 
have  to  carry  her  all  the  way,  battling  against  the  small 
but  stubborn  breakers.  How  he  covered  the  distance, 
stumbling,  falling,  scrambling,  he  never  could  have  told, 
but  after  what  seemed  an  hour,  he  crept  out  of  the 
breakers  and  fell  exhausted  on  the  rock,  dragging  Joan 
after  him.  Scarcely  able  to  move  his  tired  limbs,  he 
pulled  and  tugged  until  they  were  well  out  of  the  baf 
fled  waters,  and  then  he  rolled  over  on  his  back  and 
gasped  for  breath. 

It  was  the  girl  who  first  showed  signs  of  recupera 
tion.  She  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posture,  support 
ing  her  body  with  her  hands,  and  studied  the  limp  figure 
at  her  side  through  bewildered,  half -understanding  eyes. 
Her  mind  worked  slowly,  so  slowly  that  a  full  minute 
passed  before  she  realised  that  he  was  as  motionless  as 
death  itself.  Then  her  hand  went  out,  timorously, 
dumbly,  to  touch  the  pallid  face.  The  fear  that  was 
growing  in  her  faintly  beating  heart  was  dispelled  al 
most  instantly,  quite  before  it  was  fully  formed:  he 
opened  his  eyes  at  her  touch.  For  a  long  time  they 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then  a  wry  smile 
broke  on  his  lips. 


92  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Gee,"  he  said,  in  very  shaky  tones,  "  I  guess  you've 
got  a  right  to  think  I'm  an  awful  duffer." 

"I  —  I  thought  you  were  —  Oh,  Eric,  you  are  not 
dead !  I  am  so  glad  —  so  glad !  "  she  sobbed,  clasping 
her  hands  to  her  breast. 

"  I  —  I  didn't  dare  to  look  at  you,  Joan,"  he  murmured 
hoarsely,  a  spasm  of  pain  convulsing  his  face.  "  I  was 
afraid  —  afraid  you  hadn't  come  through  all  right. 
Oh,  if  you  had  not  touched  me  when  you  did  I  should 
have  died.  I  believe  I  held  my  breath  for  an  hour. 
Thank  God,  thank  God!" 

He  sat  up  beside  her,  touched  her  hands,  her  face 
•with  his  fingers.  A  smile  of  relief,  of  actual  glee, 
spread  over  his  face  like  an  illumination.  He  drew  a 
great,  deep  breath,  as  she  smiled  wanly  in  return,  and 
then  staggered  to  his  feet  to  shout  and  dance  like  one 
bereft  of  his  senses. 


THE   REVEALING   OF    SEVERAL  INSTINCTS 

AFTEB  his  wild  exhilaration  had  spent  itself  to  some  ex 
tent,  he  set  about  doing  sensible  things,  and  uttering  ra 
tional  words. 

"  It  may  not  be  such  a  laughing  matter,  after  all," 
he  said  lugubriously.  "  We're  on  a  desert  island." 
His  gaze  swept  the  sunlit,  tumbling  sea.  "  I'm  afraid 
they  can't  make  us  out  from  the  lighthouse." 

"  I'm  glad  we're  here  and  not  out  there  on  that  poor 
little  boat,"  she  cried,  getting  to  her  feet  and  pointing 
off  to  the  right.  "  Look !  It's  through  the  channel." 

The  belly  of  the  boat  was  to  be  seen  bobbing  on  the 
•waves  far  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  passage. 

They  watched  it  for  a  long  time  in  silence  and  dread. 
A  shudder  swept  over  them  and  they  clasped  hands, 
looking  again  into  each  other's  dismayed  eyes. 

"  God  knows  where  that  boat  will  go  before  it  finds 
a  resting  place,"  he  murmured.  "  I'm  glad  I  made  the 
try  for  shore."  He  grinned.  "  We'd  be  well  on  our 
way  to  Europe  —  or  maybe  Africa,  Joan,  before  night. 
Or  Davy  Jones'  locker,  as  old  Jabez  Carr  would  say." 

"  I  prefer  Eddy's  Islands,"  she  said  simply.  She 
stood  beside  him,  straight  and  slim,  her  drenched  gar 
ments  clinging  to  her  body  as  if  glued,  her  soft  brown 
hair  plastered  down  and  matted  with  the  salt  of  the 
sea,  her  hat  hanging  limp  and  desolate  over  her  shoul 
der.  "  Do  you  suppose  they  will  send  boats  out  to 
search  for  ua,  Eric  ?  " 

"  Of    course    they    will,"    he   cried    cheerfully.     But 

93 


94  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

there  was  no  rail  to  be  seen,  strain  their  eyes  as  they 
would  in  the  direction  of  the  mainland. 

"  We  might  as  well  explore  the  island,"  he  went  on, 
hiding  the  anxious  note  in  his  voice.  "  It  can't  be  later 
than  three  o'clock.  They'll  be  here  before  dark,  sure. 
Wait!  Let  me  think  a  minute." 

He  stood  there  looking  quizzically  up  at  the  sky. 
The  June  sun  had  resumed  its  boiling  heat.  The  breeze, 
though  brisk,  was  warm  and  soft,  with  the  smell  of  the 
land  and  vegetation. 

"  Our  clothes  will  soon  dry  out  in  this  sunshine,"  he 
reflected  aloud.  "  We're  no  worse  off  than  if  we'd  just 
come  out  of  the  surf  and  were  sunning  ourselves  on  the 
beach.  Maybe  you'd  — "  He  hesitated  in  some  embar 
rassment.  "  Maybe  you'd  like  to  be  left  alone  for 
awhile,  Joan,  to  —  to  tidy  yourself  up  a  bit." 

She  looked  surprised  and  grateful. 

"  I'll  take  a  look  about  the  island  by  myself,  first, 
and  be  back  in  an  hour." 

"  I  am  a  perfect  fright,"  she  said  disconsolately. 

"  No,  you're  not,"  he  cried  warmly.  Then  he  left 
her.  She  watched  him  scramble  off  among  the  rocks 
above,  and  then,  with  a  sigh  of  despair,  began  fumbling 
for  combs  in  the  hopelessly  gnarled  mass  of  hair. 

When  he  came  back  whistling  from  his  detour  of  the 
bleak  little  island,  on  which  grew  not  a  single  spear  of 
vegetation,  she  was  sitting  composedly  in  the  sun,  her 
long  brown  hair  hanging  loose  to  dry,  her  wistful  eyes 
gazing  out  over  the  water  in  the  direction  of  home. 
She  had  removed  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  they,  too, 
were  drying  near  at  hand.  Somehow,  you  had  the  feel 
ing  that  her  shirt-waist  and  the  duck  skirt  also  had  been 
wrung  out  and  dried  and  pressed  into  an  amazingly 
presentable  shape.  The  eternal  feminine  in  her! 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      95 

He,  too,  was  barefooted.  The  rocks  were  growing 
hot  beneath  the  rays  of  the  sun.  He  walked  with  the 
tender  care  of  one  who  finds  discomfort  in  the  act  of 
putting  down  his  foot. 

"  Good !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  That's  the  way  Mary 
dries  her  hair,"  he  added  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 

She  pouted.  "  Don't  you  like  it  this  way  ?  I'll  put 
it  up  at  -—  " 

"  Don't !  I  like  it !  It's  gorgeous.  Goodness,  I'd 
never  think  you  had  so  much  hair.  You  —  you  can 
sit  on  it,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  No  one  sits  on  her  hair,"  she  retorted,  not  quite 
sure  whether  to  be  pleased.  "  Eric,  I  must  have  a  drink 
of  water." 

His  face  brightened.  "  There  isn't  a  sign  of  a  spring 
on  Little  Eddy,"  he  said. 

"What!"  she  wailed. 

"  But,"  he  added  triumphantly,  "  I  found  a  pool  of 
rain  water  up  there  at  the  top,  and  covered  it  with  a 
slab  of  stone,  so's  it  wouldn't  evaporate.  Come  along. 
I'll  show  you  over  the  island  if  —  Gee !  Doesn't  it  burn 
your  feet?  " 

"  Ooh !  I  should  say  it  does !  "  she  cried,  screwing 
her  face  into  an  exaggerated  expression  of  pain.  They 
were  young. 

Together  they  picked  their  way  to  the  pool  he  had  so 
thoughtfully  located  and  preserved.  Then  they  sought 
the  shade  of  the  shelving  rock  and  sat  down  to  wait, 
their  gaze  turned  ever  shoreward,  searching  the  horizon 
for  sails  or  the  smoke  of  tugs. 

The  afternoon  wore  away,  and  the  gloom  of  dusk 
began  to  settle  over  the  blue  waters,  the  evening  mist 
creeping  out  from  the  shore  to  meet  the  shadows  from 
the  mysterious  east.  The  castaways,  so  near  to  home 


So  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

yet  so  far  from  its  security,  fell  into  a  dull,  brooding 
silence,  their  thoughts  crowded  with  vague  fears  and  a 
certain  growing  resentment  toward  those  on  shore,  who 
were  failing  them.  They  could  not  understand  why  a 
whole  fleet  of  boats  had  not  put  forth  at  once  to  search 
for  them.  Was  not  she  the  daughter  of  a  Supreme 
Court  Judge?  Was  not  he  the  nephew  of  the  great 
Horace  Blagden?  Why,  then,  were  they  being  treated 
with  such  indifference,  such  inexplicable  disdain?  Could 
it  be  possible  that  no  one  cared  what  became  of  them? 
A  thousand  bitter  thoughts  assailed  them  as  they  sat 
there,  staring  out  over  the  darkening  sea.  Neither  com 
plained  aloud,  and  yet  both  had  come  to  feel  that  they 
would  not  be  found  that  night. 

The  great  revolving  lantern  in  the  distant  lighthouse 
sent  out  its  beams;  the  stars  struggled  through  the 
scattering  mists,  and  the  solemn  moon  spread  a  soft 
glow  over  their  world  of  desolation.  The  lapping  of  the 
waves,  the  regular  swish  of  disturbed  waters  against 
the  lonely  reef  were  the  only  sounds  that  fell  upon  their 
ears.  They  were  hungry,  exhausted,  despairing,  out 
there  alone  on  the  breast  of  the  sea. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Joan,"  he  whispered,  leaning  close 
to  her,  infinite  tenderness  in  his  hushed  voice.  "  Noth 
ing  can  happen  to  us  to-night.  They'll  surely  come  in 
the  morning." 

"  I'm  not  really  afraid,  Eric,"  she  said,  but  there  was 
awe  in  her  voice.  "  But  isn't  it  lonely  ?  Isn't  it  awful 
to  be  alone  out  here?  "  She  crept  a  little  closer  to  him. 

He  quelled  the  tender  impulse  to  clasp  her  in  his 
arms,  and  hold  her  close  to  him  so  that  she  might  sleep 
in  security  all  the  night  long,  with  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  her  hand  in  his.  A  strange  bashfulness  came 
over  him,  surpassing  anything  he  had  ever  felt  before. 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      97 

It  was  a  part  of  the  infinitely  gentle  love  that  was  in 
his  heart;  something  that  came  out  of  the  loneliness  to 
show  him  how  sacred,  how  pure  love  is. 

Very  gently  he  bade  her  lean  back  and  rest  her 
head  against  his  shoulder,  and  sleep.  He  would  keep 
watch.  .  .  • 

The  moon  passed  slowly  over  the  great  dome  above 
and  disappeared  behind  the  wall  of  rock  that  sheltered 
them.  She  had  been  asleep  for  hours.  Then  his 
tired  eyes  closed  and  their  heads  touched  in  sweet  ob 
livion.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  he  opened  his 
eyes. 

A  man  stood  over  them,  with  a  pitying,  though  satis 
fied  half-smile  on  his  hard  face.  Eric  blinked  his  eyes, 
and  rubbed  them,  staring  harder  and  harder. 

"  Why  —  why  — "  he  murmured  in  utter  bewilder 
ment. 

"  The  babes  in  the  woods,"  remarked  the  thick-set 
man,  with  a  satirical  chuckle.  "  Only  it  happens  to  be 
the  sea  instead  of  a  wood.  Do  you  know  what  time  it 
is?" 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  demanded  Eric,  unable  to 
conquer  his  amazement.  The  girl  stirred  and  then  sat 
bolt  upright,  staring  at  the  sinister  face  of  the  man, 
whose  hands  were  deep  in  his  coat  pockets,  his  legs 
spread  far  apart. 

"  I  walked  on  the  water,"  was  his  sacrilegious  answer. 
"  It's  ten  o'clock.  Four  bells.  Will  you  have  your 
eggs  fried  or  boiled?  " 

Eric  managed  to  grin.  "  Fried,"  he  said,  conscious 
«f  a  great  hunger.  Joan's  face  brightened  at  once,  x 

"  Can  we  go  home?  "  she  cried. 

"  Sure,  Miss  Bright.     My  private  yacht  is  lying  off 


98  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

here,  with  steam  up.  The  dinghy  awaits.  Will  you 
put  on  your  shoes  and  stockings?  " 

Joan  blushed  hotly  and  drew  her  feet  up  under  her 
skirts.  Eric  had  got  to  his  feet  and  was  running  to 
the  corner  of  the  ledge  to  look  for  the  craft.  There  it 
lay,  in  the  lee  of  the  reef,  a  smudgy,  unlovely,  chortling 
tug-boat,  smoky  and  impatient,  with  half  a  dozen  grimy 
individuals  on  board,  all  of  whom  were  surveying  the 
reef  with  the  nonchalance  of  men  used  to  disaster.  A 
small  row-boat,  with  a  single  occupant,  puttered  along 
the  edge  of  the  reef,  waiting  for  the  master  who  had 
come  ashore.  Eric  sent  up  a  shout  and  waved  his  hand. 
A  voice  at  his  elbow  spoke. 

"  I  thought  I'd  find  you  here.  Everyone  else  is  look 
ing  to  the  south  of  the  Point,  everywhere  but  the  right 
place.  Thinks  I,  they've  gone  out  to  sea.  So  we  started 
straight  out."  He  chuckled.  "  It's  a  joke  on  those 
wise  chaps, —  your  uncle  and  the  preacher  and  all  of 
'em,  looking  in  the  bay  and  dragging,  and  praying,  and 
cursing  the  luck." 

"  How  did  you  think  of  looking  away  out  here,  Mr. 
Carr?" 

Adam  Carr  closed  one  eye.  "  I  always  have  great 
luck  in  finding  people  where  they  don't  expect  to  be 
found,"  he  said  enigmatically.  "  I  figured  on  these 
reefs,  and  telephoned  out  to  the  light-keeper,  asking  if 
he'd  seen  a  capsised  boat  go  by.  He  said  he  thought 
he  saw  one  away  out  to  sea  yesterday  afternoon. 
Father  said  to  me  right  then  and  there  that  if  you  had 
half  a  chance  you'd  make  one  of  the  reefs.  He  seems 
to  think  you're  made  of  the  right  stun0,  Mr.  Eric  Mid- 
thorne.  And  here  we  are.  If  you  hadn't  been  here, 
I'd  have  known  where  you  were."  He  screwed  up  his 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      99 

lips  significantly  and  pointed  downward  with  his  stubby 
thumb. 

"  At  the  bottom  of  the  sea,"  said  Eric,  with  a  shud 
der. 

"  Yes.  But  you'd  have  come  ashore  in  time,  I  dare 
say.  Well!  Here's  Miss  Bright.  Now  we  can  be  off. 
I'll  have  the  eggs  fried  in  the  engine  room." 

"  Did  you  really  think  about  bringing  eggs  ?  "  cried 
Eric. 

"  Eggs  and  coffee,"  responded  the  hard-faced  man, 
as  he  motioned  for  his  oarsman  to  approach. 

"  What  a  horrid  looking  man,"  whispered  Joan,  when 
his  back  was  turned. 

"  I  can't  make  him  out,"  muttered  Eric.  "  He's 
Jabez  Carr's  son.  I  didn't  know  he  was  in  Corinth." 

Later  on,  he  deliberately  put  the  question  to  Adam 
Carr :  "  Where  did  you  come  from,  Mr.  Carr  ?  " 

They  had  finished  eating  their  eggs  and  were  sitting 
on  the  after  deck  with  their  strange  rescuer.  The  tug, 
with  a  vast  ado  in  its  boilers,  careened  through  the 
bright  waves,  leaving  behind  a  long,  almost  unending 
trail  of  smoke. 

Adam  Carr's  inscrutable  face  took  on  a  new  line  or 
two.  "  I  guess  you  wouldn't  be  any  the  wiser  if  I  told 
you.  It's  more  than  likely  you  never  heard  of  the 
place." 

"  Oh,  do  tell  us,"  cried  Joan,  who  had  become  deeply 
interested  in  the  man.  Despite  his  ugliness,  despite  the 
sinister  face  of  him,  he  possessed  a  certain  fascinating 
individuality  that  impressed  her,  as  it  did  all  young 
persons  susceptible  to  curiosity. 

"  Ever  hear  of  Tasmir?  "  he  asked  laconically. 

They  pondered  and  shook  their  heads. 


100  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  I  thought  so.  So  you  are  none  the  wiser,  are 
you?" 

They  sheepishly  admitted  the  fact. 

"  Is  it  a  city  or  a  country  ?  "  asked  Eric. 

"  It's  neither,"  he  affirmed.  He  grinned  in  a  most 
tantalising  manner.  Afterwards  they  were  to  learn  that 
Tasmir  was  the  seat  of  a  Russian  nobleman. 

"  Well,"  said  Eric,  hiding  his  chagrin  and  resent 
ment,  "  I'm  glad  you  came,  no  matter  where  you  came 
from.  It  must  have  been  like  looking  for  a  needle  in 
a  haystack,  but  still  you  found  us." 

"  I've  never  tried  to  find  a  needle  in  a  haystack,"  said 
Adam  Carr  reflectively.  "  I'm  sure  it  must  be  interest 
ing.  I'll  try  sometime." 

"  What  a  queer  man  you  are,  Mr.  Carr,"  cried  Joan 
impulsively.  He  stared  at  her,  and  she  shrank  inwardly 
from  the  sardonic  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

He  chuckled  mirthlessly.  "  I  hope  not,"  he  said. 
'*  Queer  men  never  get  anywhere,  Miss  Bright.  For 
instance,  the  fellow  who  looks  for  a  needle,  when  there 
are  so  many  other  things  to  look  for  that  are  worth 
finding.  You'd  call  him  a  queer  chap,  I'd  say.  I've 
found  things  in  my  time  that  would  make  looking  for  a 
needle  seem  the  easiest  task  in  the  world.  But,"  he 
added,  after  a  short  pause,  "  I  still  think  if  you'd  lost 
a  needle  in  a  haystack  and  you  just  had  to  have  that 
needle  back  in  your  sewing  bag,  I  could  find  it  for  you 
if  you  made  it  worth  while  for  me  to  do  so." 

"  No  one  could  possibly  want  a  needle  so  much  as  all 
that,"  she  cried,  perplexed  by  his  humour. 

"  In  any  event,"  said  he,  continuing  in  the  same  vein, 
"  a  needle  is  a  very  handy  thing  to  have  about  if  you 
possess  a  trick  camel." 

Joan  and  Eric  were  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  ana- 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      101 

lysing  the  remark.  They  saw  the  point  simultaneously 
and  laughed  aloud. 

"  It  would  have  to  be  a  very  big  needle  or  a  very  tiny 
camel,"  cried  she. 

"  We'll  leave  that  to  the  imagination,"  said  he,  "  as 
we  do  most  everything  else  that  really  doesn't  matter." 

Eric's  eyes  gleamed  with  a  sudden  discovery. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  Tasmir,  Mr.  Carr?  " 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  much  sharper  thing  than  a 
needle,"  said  Adam  Carr. 

"  Did  you  find  it?  " 

"  I  did." 

Eric's  voice  thrilled  with  excitement.  "  I  know  what 
you  are  now.  Gee !  "  He  gazed  at  the  mask-like  face 
in  open-eyed  wonder.  "  You  are  a  detective." 

"  Sometimes  I  doubt  it,"  was  Adam  Carr's  extraor 
dinary  way  of  acknowledging  his  profession. 

A  two  hours'  run  brought  the  tug  to  within  hailing 
distance  of  the  heterogeneous  fleet  of  small  craft,  cruis 
ing  in  the  outer  bay.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  busi 
ness  of  these  slow-moving  boats,  big  and  little.  They 
were  engaged  in  the  hopeless,  the  imbecile  task  of  drag 
ging  the  bay,  an  undertaking  inspired  by  the  command 
of  Horace  Blagden  himself.  Not  that  Horace,  who  was 
a  calm  and  sensible  man,  thought  that  the  bodies  could 
be  recovered  from  the  boundless,  shifting  waters  by  any 
such  means,  but  that  he  regarded  it  as  his  imperative 
duty  —  you  might  say  his  personal  prerogative  —  to 
make  such  a  showing  of  resoluteness,  such  defiance  of 
the  utterly  impossible, —  that  all  Corinth  would  rise  up 
and  say  in  the  same  breath  that  he  had  at  least  left  no 
stone  unturned,  if  the  simile  may  be  applied  to  the 
case. 

Dozens  of  boats  of  all  descriptions  were  plying  the 


102  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

blue  waters  of  the  bay.  Recognising  the  futility  of 
their  efforts,  the  crews  lay  back  at  ease,  smoking  and 
gazing  complacently  in  quite  the  opposite  direction  from 
that  which  their  business  required:  they  looked  lazily  at 
the  blue  sky  from  the  flat  of  their  backs,  instead  of  at 
the  water  in  which  it  was  reflected.  They  were  being 
well  paid  for  their  efforts,  which,  after  all  resolved  itself 
into  a  sort  of  special  pageant  arranged  for  the  per 
petuation  of  Horace  Blagden's  name  for  indomitable- 
ness. 

The  tug  blew  its  triumphant  blasts,  and  even  as  the 
futile  searchers  awoke  from  their  lethargy,  hurried  past 
them  toward  the  docks,  almost  scornful  in  its  haste. 
Behind  trailed  the  astonished,  irritated  boatmen,  a  long 
line  of  odds  and  ends  converging  to  a  certain  point. 

"  Call  up  my  uncle's  house  and  let  him  know,"  said 
Eric  as  they  clambered  to  the  pier. 

"No,"  objected  Adam  Carr,  "you'll  be  sure  to  find 
him  at  the  bank.  A  little  thing  like  this  wouldn't  dis 
turb  the  habit  of  a  lifetime." 

Sure  enough,  Horace  Blagden  was  at  the  bank.  Over 
the  telephone,  in  response  to  the  message  from  the  dock, 
he  said: 

"  Indeed !  Well,  I  declare !  Tell  Eric  to  go  home  at 
once.  His  aunt  is  worried.  Who  found  them?  Carr? 
Ask  him  to  stop  at  the  bank  in  a  day  or  two.  Thank 
you.  Good-bye." 

For  two  or  three  days  after  his  return  to  the  "  Giant's 
Castle,"  Eric  was  vaguely  aware  of  a  troubled,  pre-occu- 
pied  look  in  his  sister's  eyes;  dark  circles  began  to  ap 
pear  beneath  them,  and  a  certain  pathetic  wistfulness 
came  into  their  depths  when  he  seemed  to  be  asking  ques 
tions  of  her  with  his  own  puzzled,  but  observing  eyes. 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      10* 

At  first  he  attributed  these  signs  to  the  worry  and  grief 
that  must  have  tortured  her  on  that  eventful  day  and 
night,  but  as  her  very  gladness  in  having  him  with  her 
once  more  seemed  tinged  with  a  strange,  unusual  reserve, 
he  was  at  last  forced  to  believe  that  there  was  something 
else  on  her  mind.  Her  joy  in  seeing  him  had  been  wild, 
almost  to  the  point  of  delirium.  She  had  sobbed  in  his 
arms  for  hours,  it  seemed  to  him,  and  she  was  reluctant 
to  have  him  out  of  her  sight.  Her  sombre  plaintive 
eyes  followed  him  everywhere,  until  he  began  to  feel  a 
haunting  dread  of  them. 

She  was  paler  than  he  had  ever  known  her  to  be,  and 
she  was  spiritless:  a  most  unnatural  condition  for  her, 
who  was  so  gay  and  volatile  and  full  of  the  joy  of 
living. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  selected  by  the  committee 
for  the  awarding  of  the  prize,  he  bluntly  commanded 
her  to  tell  him  what  it  was  that  troubled  her.  They 
had  been  chatting  with  old  Jabez  and  his  son  Adam,  at 
the  gate-keeper's  lodge,  and  she  had  failed  utterly  to 
respond  to  the  jokes  of  the  perplexed  old  man,  who 
crustily  demanded  the  cause  of  her  "  grouch."  Eric 
noticed  that  Adam  Carr  studied  her  pale  face  with  pe 
culiar  intentness.  The  detective  had  been  telling  him 
of  his  interview  with  Horace  Blagden  a  few  days  be 
fore.  At  the  mention  of  Chetwynd's  name,  the  girl 
looked  up  with  a  quick,  half-frightened  gleam  in  her 
eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  Mary  ?  Tell  me,"  pleaded  Eric  as  they 
were  walking  homeward  across  the  meadow. 

"  It's  nothing,  Eric,"  she  protested,  over  and  over 
again. 

"  There's  something  wrong,"  he  insisted.  "  I  know 
it.  You  can't  fool  me,  girlie.  What's  up  ? "  He 


104  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

waited  for  a  moment  and  then  blurted  out : '  "  What  has 
Chetwynd  been  doing?  " 

She  burst  into  tears  and  threw  herself  upon  the 
ground  at  the  foot  of  the  great  oak  near  the  gate  in  the 
wall  surrounding  the  Blagden  place.  He  was  down  be 
side  her  in  an  instant,  pleading,  begging,  urging  her  to 
tell  him  everything. 

Then  the  story  came  out. 

'*  She  is  so  cruel,"  sobbed  Mary.  "  Oh,  Eric,  I  don't 
see  how  she  can  have  the  heart  to  think  the  things  she 
does.  I  haven't  done  anything  wrong.  I  am  a  good 
girl." 

He  grew  stiff  and  cold.     "  Tell  me,"  he  whispered. 

She  turned  over  and  lay  flat  on  her  back,  her  arms 
extended  in  the  surrender  to  despair,  her  wet  eyes  staring 
at  the  green  leaves  above. 

"  It  was  Chetwynd,"  she  began  j  erkily .  "  Oh,  how  I 
loathe  him.  He  — " 

"  What  has  that  beast  done  to  you  ?  "  cried  Eric,  a 
fearful  dread  in  his  souL 

"  Wait.  I'll  tell  you.  The  day  you  and  Joan  went 
out  in  the  boat  he  stayed  at  home  that  morning,  you  re 
member,  with  a  headache,  he  said.  He  was  lying  on  the 
couch  in  the  library  when  I  came  in.  He  called  me  in. 
Aunt  Rena  was  over  town,  shopping.  Oh,  Eric,  I  can't 
bear  to  tell  you." 

"  Go  on !  "  he  grated,  his  fingers  working. 

"  He  asked  me  to  sit  down  and  read  to  him.  It  would 
rest  him,  he  said.  Pretty  soon  he  asked  me  to  stop  and 
get  a  cold  cloth  for  his  head.  When  I  —  when  I 
started  to  put  the  cloth  on  his  forehead,  he  grabbed  me 
and  pulled  me  down  beside  him.  He  —  he  kissed  me, 
Eric  —  oh,  he  held  me  as  if  his  arms  were  of  iron !  I 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      105 

fought  him,  I  tried  to  get  away,  I  tried  to  scream !  He 
had  not  kissed  me  since  we  were  little  children,  and  oh, 
it  was  so  different.  He  said  he'd  kill  me  if  I  didn't 
keep  still.  But  I  wouldn't  keep  still.  I  was  so  afraid 
of  him.  I  thought  I  should  die.  At  last  I  got  away 
from  him  and  ran  out  of  the  room.  He  followed  and 
caught  me  in  the  hall.  I  was  so  weak,  so  dreadfully 
scared  I  could  hardly  stand,  but  I  tried  to  beat  him  off. 
He  was  holding  me  tight  and  kissing  me  —  Oh !  Oh !  " 
She  closed  her  eyes  before  going  on.  "  His  breath  was 
so  hot,  so  awful  of  cigarettes.  I  was  suffocating.  I 
couldn't  breathe.  He  kept  saying,  over  and  over  again, 
that  it  would  be  all  right  and  that  I  must  never  tell. 
Then  the  hall  door  opened  and  Aunt  Rena  came  in. 
I  didn't  see  her,  at  first,  but  I  knew  something  had  hap 
pened,  for  he  suddenly  let  go  of  me.  I  heard  him  say 
a  horrid  word,  under  his  breath.  When  I  saw  Aunt 
Rena  I  flew  to  her  and  tried  to  tell  her  what  had  hap 
pened.  I  begged  her  not  to  let  him  come  near  me.  But 
—  Eric !  Eric ! " 

She  stopped  short,  her  hands  clenched.  He  was  trem 
bling  like  a  leaf,  and  his  jaw  was  working  like  that  of  an 
animal.  Veins  stood  out  in  his  forehead.  He  was  see 
ing  things  red. 

"  Eric,"  she  moaned,  "  Aunt  Rena  wouldn't  listen  to 
me.  She  turned  on  me  and  pushed  me  away,  calling  me 
a  *  hussy,'  a  '  wretch,' —  Oh,  worse  than  that !  I  couldn't 
make  her  understand.  I  couldn't  make  her  believe  that 
I  was  not  to  blame.  She  accused  me  of  everything 
dreadful.  She  said  I  was  leading  Chetwynd  into  — > 
to  do  wicked,  low  things.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  all  she 
said.  I  was  so  stunned,  so  helpless,  I  —  I  couldn't  be 
lieve  it  was  really  true.  When  I  begged  him  to  tell  her 


106  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  truth,  he  only  grinned  and  told  me  to  '  shut  up  and 
take  my  medicine.'  He  was  through  with  me.  I 
couldn't  trifle  with  him.  That's  what  he  said,  Eric. 
And  she  believed  him.  She  called  him  her  poor  boy, 
her  angel  —  Oh,  I  shall  never  live  through  this,  Eric. 
I  want  to  die." 

Eric  could  not  utter  a  word.  His  lips  moved,  but 
only  hoarse,  inarticulate  sounds  came  forth.  She 
waited  awhile,  then  went  on,  drearily. 

"  Aunt  Rena  wanted  to  turn  me  out  into  the  street, 
but  he  objected  to  that.  He  said  I  was  not  altogether 
to  blame.  In  a  sneering  sort  of  way,  he  made  out  as  if 
he  were  willing  to  take  all  the  blame.  She  called  him 
noble,  gallant,  self-sacrificing!  You  should  have  heard 
her.  In  the  library  he  got  her  to  promise  not  to  say  a 
word  to  Uncle  Horace  about  it.  If  I  left  the  house,  he 
said,  he  would  go,  too.  It  scared  her.  She  said  it  was 
best  to  keep  it  all  to  ourselves.  I  was  to  be  given  an 
other  chance.  And  I  was  locked  in  my  room  because 
I  said  I  would  run  away.  She  kept  me  there  all  after 
noon,  all  through  the  storm,  until  Mrs.  Presbrey  came 
to  talk  to  me.  I  — " 

Her  brother  leaped  to  his  feet,  glaring  about  like  a 
wild  beast. 

"  Damn  him !  Damn  her !  "  he  cried  furiously.  "  I'll 
beat  her  brains  out !  " 

He  started  toward  the  gate,  staggering  blindly. 
Mary  sped  after  him,  grasping  his  arm  in  frantic  alarm. 

"  Let  go  of  me !  "  he  snarled.  "  Do  you  suppose  that 
cur  can  treat  you  as  he  did  and  not  pay  for  it?  I'll  kill 
him!" 

"  You  must  be  sensible !  Listen  to  me,  Eric,  dear. 
Usten !  Don't  say  such  things.  For  my  sake !  " 

"  He's  not  fit  to  live !     I've  always  hated  him.     It 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      10T 

would  serve  Aunt  Rena  right,  if  I  were  to  kill  her  angel, 
her  darling.  Let  go,  Mary !  Just  think  of  what  he  did 
to  you." 

But  she  clung  to  him  in  desperation,  murmuring  over 
and  ovei  again  through  white,  paralysed  lips :  "  You 
must  not  kill  him.  Thou  shalt  not  kill!  Thou  shalt 
not  kill!" 

"  What  good  does  it  do  to  preach?  "  he  cried  angrily. 
"  Nobody  pays  any  attention  to  the  ten  commandments 
nowadays.  Why  should  I?  " 

"  /  do,  Eric.  I  am  not  going  to  be  what  they  say  I'll 
be.  Why  should  you?  Why  should  you  commit  mur 
der?  Do  you  want  old  Presbrey  to  say  '  I  told  you  so,' 
when  he  goes  to  see  you  in  the  gaol?  Do  you  want  to 
be  hung,  as  that  man  was  in  Ridgely  County  ?  The  one 
they  always  tell  you  about  ?  Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  told 
you  what  Chetwynd  did  to  me.  I  wouldn't  have  told 
you  if  I'd  thought  you'd  take  it  like  this." 

The  boy's  struggles  and  ranting  ceased  abruptly.  A 
pallor  spread  over  his  face.  The  words  "  murder," 
"  hung,"  "  Presbrey,"  ran  together  in  his  brain,  cre 
ating  a  jumble  out  of  which  a  cold,  deathly  calmness 
emerged.  His  mind  began  to  work  in  an  entirely  dif 
ferent  direction.  Somehow,  inexplicable  to  him,  a 
strange  subtleness,  a  sharp  cunning,  took  the  place  of 
blind  rage  and  despair.  He  suddenly  realised  how  near 
he  had  been  to  doing  the  very  thing  that  would  have 
proved  their  estimate  of  him  even  to  their  own  cost.  To 
Mary's  amazement,  he  broke  in  upon  her  renewed  plead 
ings,  with  a  hoarse,  unnatural  laugh. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  horrible  joke  on  them  if  I  did 
commit  murder,  with  Chetwynd  as  my  victim?  Good 
heavens,  how  Uncle  Horace  would  look!  He'd  have  to 
be  surprised  at  that.  And  Aunt  Rena  would  have  some- 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

thing  to  talk  about  all  the  rest  of  her  life.  And  say! 
Old  Presbrey  and  Julia!  They'd  just  die  of  shame  to 
think  that  they  hadn't  let  me  go  my  own  way  long  ago, 
so's  I  might  have  killed  someone  else  before  I  got  Chet- 
wynd." 

"  Eric,"  she  cried  in  distress,  **  how  strangely  you 
talk." 

He  grasped  her  by  the  hand,  moved  by  an  impulse  to 
run  wildly.  "  Come  on,"  he  shouted.  "  I've  got  to  do 
something.  I've  got  to  wear  it  off.  Let's  run!  Let's 
run  to  Stone  Wall." 

Stone  Wall  was  the  name  given  to  a  rocky  stretch  of 
coast  beyond  Todville,  a  secret  and  unlovely  place  where 
the  surf  beat  with  incessant  roars  or  sighs,  as  the  case 
might  be,  always  pounding.  A  resting  place  for  gulls, 
abhorred  by  man,  useless  and  scorned  as  a  place  unfin 
ished  by  the  Creator.  Thither  fared  all  those  who 
sought  solitude  for  reflection,  all  those  who  contem 
plated  suicide,  or  those  who  pursued  Love  when  it  was 
least  timid. 

Hours  afterward,  Mary  and  Eric  came  away  from  the 
moss-covered  rocks  of  Stone  Wall,  and  slowly  made 
their  way,  through  the  dense  thickets  and  across  sweet 
meadows,  back  to  the  hated  little  gate  in  the  Blagden 
garden  wall.  They  were  calm  and  strangely  subdued. 
They  had  talked  it  all  out,  down  there  on  the  rocks,  and 
they  had  found  solace  in  mutually  resigning  themselves 
to  the  inevitable. 

"  It  can't  be  forever,  Eric,"  she  had  said. 

"  No,"  he  said,  gritting  his  teeth,  "  God  won't  let  it 
go  that  far." 

And  so  it  was,  that  Eric  found  out  what  troubled  his 
sister  Mary,  and  why  her  eyes  were  full  of  dread. 

They  passed  by  old  Jabez  on  their  way  up.     He  was 


leaning  over  the  gate,  blandly  surveying  them  through 
the  smoke  of  his  pipe. 

"  Where's  Mr.  Adam,  Uncle  Jabe  ?  "  sang  out  Eric 
from  across  the  road. 

"  He  went  to  New  York  on  the  two  o'clock  train,"  re 
plied  the  ancient.  "  Quite  sudden,  too.  But  he's  allus 
doin'  things  he  didn't,  intend  to  do  ten  minutes  afore  he 
does  'em.  Dangdest  boy  I  ever  see." 

The  boy  and  girl  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  dinner  with  the 
family.  They  would  have  to  face  Aunt  Rena  and  Chet- 
wynd,  and  it  was  going  to  be  hard  for  Eric  to  be  polite 
and  agreeable.  But  they  were  to  be  spared  the  pres 
ence  of  Chetwynd,  it  afterward  developed. 

Just  before  the  dinner  gong  sounded,  Eric  met  his 
aunt  in  the  upper  hall.  He  swallowed  hard  and  then 
put  as  much  heartiness  in  his  voice  as  he  could  muster. 

"Where's  Chetwynd,  Aunt  Rena?" 

"  He  has  gone  to  New  York.     Why  ?  " 

"  New  York?     In  the  middle  of  the  week?  " 

"  Certainly.  He  has  been  half-sick  for  a  week.  A 
few  days'  rest  from  the  tedious  work  in  the  bank  will  do 
him  a  world  of  good.  He's  to  see  Dr.  Throgmartin  to 
morrow  about  those  dreadful  headaches." 

"  The  judges  were  to  award  the  prize  this  afternoon," 
observed  Eric.  "  Didn't  he  care  to  wait  and  see  how  the 
contest  came  out  ?  " 

She  smiled  complacently,  comfortably.  "  Oh,  he 
wasn't  worried.  He  is  so  sure  to  win.  And  why 
shouldn't  he?  He  has  made  sitch  a  study  of  it." 

"  I  guess  that's  why  he  has  the  headaches,"  said  Eric 
innocently.  She  looked  at  him  again,  very  sharply. 

"  Where  is  Mary  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  In  her  room,  I  think.  You  needn't  question  her, 
Aunt  Rena.  She  told  me  what  Chetwynd  did  to  her, 


110  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

and  what  you  said  to  her.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
know.  It  — " 

"  Eric,"  she  said,  "  I  must  ask  you  not  to  be  so  inso 
lent.  You  must  not  stand  — " 

He  held  his  ground,  confronting  her  with  set  face  and 
unwavering  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  insolent,  Aunt  Rena.  But 
we've  just  got  to  understand  each  other.  It  needn't  go 
any  farther,  if  you  like. —  I  mean  Uncle  Horace  isn't 
to  know.  I  just  have  to  say  this:  Mary  was  not  to 
blame.  I  know  it,  and  down  in  your  heart  you  know  it. 
Chetwynd  acted  like  a  dirty  brute,  and  you  took  his 
part.  I  don't  want  him  to  apologise  to  Mary.  I  don't 
want  a  word  more  said  about  it.  I'm  not  afraid  to  say 
this  to  you,  because  I  know  and  you  know  that  if  Mary 
went  to  Uncle  Horace  with  that  story,  he'd  believe  her 
and  he'd  kick  his  own  son  out  of  the  house.  That's  just 
what  Uncle  Horace  would  do,  and  you  know  it.  He 
knows  Mary  isn't  that  kind  of  a  girl,  just  as  well  as 
you  know  it.  That's  all  I  have  to  say.  The  incident  is 
closed,  unless  you  choose  to  re-open  it." 

She  stood  there  staring  after  him,  with  a  limp  lower 
lip,  and  the  glaze  of  stupefaction  over  her  eyes.  He 
coolly  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  library. 
Then  she  went  into  her  bed-room  and  wept  softly  until 
dinner  time. 

Mary  found  Eric  on  the  porch  soon  after  the  meeting 
in  the  hall. 

"  Eric,"  she  whispered,  in  awed  tones,  "  Aunt  Rena  is 
crying  in  her  room.  I  heard  her  as  plain  as  any 
thing." 

"  It  always  does  a  woman  good  to  cry,"  remarked 
the  young  philosopher,  with  a  hardening  of  the  muscles 
in  his  jaw. 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS      111 

Mary  was  looking  down  the  tree-lined  walk. 

"  Oh,  goodness,"  she  cried,  in  dismay.  "  See  who's 
coming  to  dinner  with  Uncle  Horace." 

Eric  turned  up  his  eyes  and  groaned  with  sepulchral 
devoutness. 

Horace  was  entering  the  gate  with  the  estimable  Pres- 
breys,  both  of  whom  were  rigged  up  fit  to  eat  —  and 
that  is  really  what  they  had  got  themselves  up  for. 

As  they  came  up  the  steps,  Mr.  Blagden  blandly  ad 
dressed  the  boy  and  girl  standing  at  the  rail  above. 

"  I  suppose  you're  waiting  to  hear  who  won  the 
prize." 

Eric  began  to  tremble  with  a  sudden,  overpowering 
excitement.  He  was  to  hear  himself  proclaimed  the  win 
ner! 

"  Did  Eric  win  it  ?  "  cried  Mary,  her  dark  eyes  glow 
ing. 

Mild  surprise  revealed  itself  in  Mr.  Blagden's  eyes, — 
surprise  tinged  with  pity.  You  would  have  thought 
that  the  bare  suggestion  that  Eric  might  have  won  over 
his  son  was  a  distinct  shock  to  his  nerves. 

Mr.  Presbrey  smiled  cheerfully  for  Eric's  benefit,  as 
much  as  to  say  it  wasn't  worth  worrying  over,  or  being 
disappointed  about. 

"  Chetwynd  won  it,  of  course,"  announced  Horace 
with  some  austerity.  "  It  was  the  unanimous  opinion 
of  the  judges  that  his  designs  were  the  best.  Of 
course,"  he  went  on  magnanimously,  laying  his  hand  on 
Eric's  shoulder  and  turning  to  the  Presbreys,  "  we  will 
have  to  admit  that  Chetwynd  had  a  decided  advantage 
over  the  other  contestants,  among  them  Eric.  His  work 
at  college  and  his  private  instructions  gave  him  —  er, 
ahem !  —  a  rather  unfair  start,  you  might  say.  I  spoke 
to  the  committee  about  it,  but  they  called  my  objections 


112  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

absurd  —  er,  ahem  —  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  have 
never  felt  that  Chetwynd  should  — " 

Mr.  Presbrey  took  the  liberty  of  interrupting  him. 
This  was  an  instance  when  Horace  was  not  only  likely  to 
excuse  an  interruption  but  might  even  welcome  it.  So 
Mr.  Presbrey  rose  to  the  occasion.  He  put  in  a  temper 
ing  protest. 

"  My  dear  sir,  put  that  thought  from  you,  once  and 
for  all.  Chetwynd  was  certainly  as  eligible  as  anyone. 
All  is  fair  in  —  er  —  love  and  war.  Ha,  ha !  Quite  so, 
quite  so!  Ha,  ha!  You  heard  what  Mr.  Borden,  of 
the  committee,  said.  '  Amazingly  clever  and  brilliant 
idea  for  a  college  boy,  and  well  thought  out.'  Those 
were  his  very  words.  I  made  it  a  point  to  remember 
them  so  that  I  might  repeat  them  to  Mrs.  Blagden." 

Horace  smiled  benignly,  and  then  permitted  a  cloud 
to  cross  his  face.  He  squeezed  Eric's  shoulder  in  a  con 
soling  grip  and  said :  "  It's  hard  on  you,  Eric.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  Chetwynd,  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
carried  off  the  honour.  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I 
should  have  kept  your  cousin  out  of  the  contest." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  right,  sir,"  said  Eric  simply. 
He  had  swallowed  hard  before  opening  his  mouth. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Eric,"  went  on  his  uncle,  kindly. 

Eric  could  hardly  believe  his  senses.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  heard  that  expression  come  from  his  uncle's 
lips.  Somehow,  it  had  never  entered  his  head  that  Chet- 
wynd's  father  could  be  sorry  for  anybody. 

There  were  tears  in  Mary's  eyes  as  they  followed  Mr. 
Blagden  and  his  guests  into  the  house.  She  pressed 
Eric's  arm. 

"  I  just  know  his  design  wasn't  as  good  as  yours, 
Eric,"  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  a  bit,  girlie,"  he  said  bravely,  de- 


REVEALING  OF  SEVERAL  INSTINCTS     113 

spite  the  sore  disappointment  in  his  heart.  "  It's  all 
in  a  lifetime."  A  moment  later,  he  muttered,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her :  "  I  wonder  when  he  worked  at  the 
design.  He  read  novels  all  the  time,  so  far  as  I  could 
tell." 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  on  exhibition  at  the  public  li 
brary,"  said  Mary,  in  grudging  tones. 

"  I'll  see  it  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Blagden  came  down  the  stairway,  dry-eyed  and 
eager.  Even  as  she  shook  hands  with  the  Presbreys,  she 
flashed  a  questioning  glance  at  her  husband. 

"  Did  Chetwynd  get  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Horace. 

She  beamed.  "  You  must  telegraph  the  news  to  him, 
Horace." 

He  playfully  tapped  her  on  the  cheek  with  his  slim, 
cool  fingers.  "  I  already  have  done  so,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN 

LATE  the  next  afternoon  Horace  received  a  telegram 
that  puzzled  him  not  a  little.  It  was  from  Chetwynd. 
"Who  won  the  prize?  Wire  me  at  the  Holland  as 
usual." 

What  puzzled  Horace  was  this:  what  had  become  of 
the  telegram  addressed  to  his  son  at  the  Holland  half  an 
hour  after  the  awarding  of  the  prize  the  day  before? 
But  what  would  have  puzzled  anyone  who  knew  Mr. 
Blagden  at  all  well,  was  his  action  in  sending  a  second 
telegram  without  inquiring  at  the  telegraph  office  why 
the  first  had  not  been  delivered.  The  thin  line  between 
the  banker's  eyes  seemed  to  have  deepened  perceptibly 
after  the  receipt  of  his  son's  query.  Somehow,  he  had 
the  ugly  notion  that  his  first  telegram  was  lying  un 
claimed  at  the  hotel  in  New  York. 

Mr.  Blagden  usually  left  the  bank  at  four  in  the 
afternoon.  It  was  his  practice,  not  to  say  habit,  to 
walk  up  the  street  to  his  club, —  the  only  one  in  town 
that  a  gentleman  could  enter  without  glancing  over  his 
shoulder  in  all  directions, —  there  to  read  the  Boston  pa 
pers  and  engage  in  a  subsequent  game  of  cribbage  with 
Colonel  Harkweather,  who  also  read  the  papers  before 
doing  anything  else.  On  this  particular  afternoon, 
however,  the  Colonel  not  only  read  the  Boston  papers, 
but  scanned  the  New  York  dailies  and  then  took  up  the 
magazines.  Finally  he  went  home  in  fine  disgust.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  months  that  Blagden  had  failed  to 
appear.  He  was  half-wav-home  before  it  occurred  to 

114 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN      115 

him  that  the  banker  might  be  ill.  So  he  entered  a  drug 
store  and  telephoned  to  the  house  on  the  hill.  He  was 
not  at  all  relieved  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Blagden  herself  that 
Horace  had  never  been  in  better  health.  If  anything, 
the  Colonel  was  more  furious  than  before,  considering 
himself  a  much  abused  man.  He  kept  saying  over  and 
over  again  to  himself  that  he  was  sorry  Blagden  was 
not  ill:  there  was  now  no  excuse  at  all  for  him  that  he 
could  see. 

But  Horace  sat  at  his  desk  much  later  than  usual  on 
this  day,  a  troubled  frown  on  his  brow.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  Chetwynd,  as  you  might  suppose, —  at 
least,  he  was  not  devoting  all  of  his  thoughts  to  the  boy. 
It  seems  there  was  a  very  grave  cause  for  suspecting 
a  former  employe  of  dishonest  practices  during  the  last 
days  of  his  employment  in  the  bank.  Within  the  past 
week,  auditors  in  going  over  the  books  anticipatory  to 
the  appearance  of  the  bank  examiner,  had  unearthed 
discrepancies  in  the  balances.  There  was  a  clearly  de 
fined  shortage  of  nearly  five  thousand  dollars,  carried 
over  for  several  months  before  coming  to  light.  Care 
ful  investigation  revealed  the  fact  that  the  shortage  was 
created  about  the  time  the  assistant  teller  left  the  bank 
in  order  to  make  room  for  the  president's  son.  The 
young  man  himself,  one  John  Pay  son,  after  losing  his 
position,  secured  work  in  the  offices  of  a  Building  and 
Loan  Society,  upon  the  unqualified  recommendation  of 
Horace  Blagden.  He  remained  in  the  bank  for  a  week 
after  Chetwynd  was  installed,  instructing  him  in  the 
duties  of  office.  As  near  as  could  be  reckoned,  the  em 
bezzlement  occurred  immediately  before  or  during  this 
week  of  instruction. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened  before  in  the  his 
tory  of  Blagden  &  Co.  Not  so  much  as  a  penny  had 


116  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

been  feloniously  taken  from  its  coffers,  not  in  all  the 
sixty  years  of  the  bank's  existence.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  Horace  was  disturbed. 

To  think  that  he  had  employed  a  man  who  could  stoop 
to  theft !  And  to  think  that  subsequently  he  had  recom 
mended  him  to  a  position  of  trust!  It  was  most  upset 
ting. 

With  a  promptness  that  suggested  panic,  Mr.  Blag- 
den  hired  a  New  York  detective  and  put  him  on  the 
case.  For  a  week  or  more,  that  worthy  had  been  devot 
ing  his  time  and  intelligence  to  a  study  of  the  past  and 
present  habits  of  the  suspected  young  man,  with  the  sur 
prising  result  that,  so  far,  he  was  unable  to  report  to  Mr. 
Blagden  that  they  were  anything  but  good.  This,  of 
course,  convinced  Horace  that  the  fellow  was  an  uncom 
monly  clever  rascal. 

The  detective  was  Adam  Carr. 

On  this  particular  day,  Mr.  Blagden  sat  in  his  private 
office  long  after  the  hour  for  closing,  aimlessly  fingering 
the  telegram  he  had  received  from  his  son,  but  intently 
considering  the  day's  report  from  Adam  Carr.  It  was 
beginning  to  enter  his  mind  that  Carr  was  not  competent 
to  handle  a  case  so  baffling  as  this  appeared  to  be.  He 
was  wondering  if  it  would  not  be  a  wise  move  to  dismiss 
him  and  employ  a  Boston  man  who,  it  appears,  had 
caught  a  -very  clever  defaulter  after  chasing  him  for 
three  years.  But  as  Horace  was  a  prompt  man  in 
everything,  he  was  bound  to  admit  that  he  was  averse  to 
hiring  a  man  who  was  so  slow  as  all  that.  He  had  talked 
it  over  with  the  cashier  and  three  of  the  directors,  and 
they  had  advised  hiring  the  Boston  man.  That  was  an 
other  reason  why  he  hesitated. 

Carr's  report  for  the  day  brought  nothing  new  to  his 
impatient  mind.  The  ex-teller  was  behaving  in  a  most 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     117 

circumspect  manner.  There  was  no  evidence  that  he 
gambled,  speculated,  or  kept  a  woman  in  New  York. 
Payson  had  not  visited  New  York  in  two  years,  so  far  as 
Adam  Carr  could  learn,  and  Horace  was  forced  to  ad 
mit  that  if  he  had  a  paramour  at  all,  she  must  be  in  New 
York.  She  couldn't  be  in  Corinth. 

The  telephone  on  his  desk  rang.  He  put  the  receiver 
to  his  ear  with  mechanical  precision  and  said :  "  Yes." 
The  voice  that  came  out  of  the  little  black  tube  was  so 
loud  and  vibrant  that  his  eye-lids  twitched  with  pain; 
he  held  the  receiver  a  little  farther  away.  It  always  an 
noyed  him  to  have  anyone  shout  in  his  ear.  A  look  of 
surprise  followed  immediately.  Eric  Midthorne  was 
speaking. 

"  Yes,  I  am  still  here,"  replied  Mr.  Blagden.  "  What 
is  it  ?  "  He  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  strident,  ex 
cited  voice  and  then  cut  in  with  the  curt  remark :  "  It 
isn't  necessary  to  shout.  I  can  hear  you.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  will  wait  here  if  it  is  important.  But  don't  be  long 
about  it.  Come  up  if  you  must  see  me." 

Three  minutes  later  Eric  burst  into  the  room  without 
so  much  as  a  tap  on  the  mahogany  door. 

"  Dear  me,  Eric,  is  this  the  way  to  enter  a  room  ?  " 
demanded  Horace,  in  that  mild  tone  of  reproof  that 
never  failed  to  hurt  more  than  a  sharp  reprimand. 

Eric's  face  was  as  white  as  chalk.  He  came  directly 
to  the  desk,  but  many  seconds  elapsed  before  he  could 
force  words  through  his  twisted  lips.  Horace  stared  at 
the  boy's  convulsed  face  in  actual  surprise. 

"  Uncle  Horace,"  began  Eric  hoarsely,  "  it  was  my 
drawing  that  took  the  prize.  Do  you  know  that?  It 
was  my  drawing.  I  have  just  seen  it." 

Mr.  Blagden's  brow  darkened ;  his  grey  eyes  narrowed 
and  seemed  to  turn  black  as  coal. 


118  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  What  are  you  saying?  "  he  demanded. 

Eric  struck  the  desk  a  violent  blow  with  his  clenched 
fist.  His  eyes  shot  fire. 

"  It  was  my  drawing !     Chetwynd  stole  it !  " 

Horace  opened  his  eyes  very  wide.  A  look  that  no 
one  had  ever  seen  in  them  before  grew  as  he  stared,  with 
parted  lips,  at  him  who  uttered  those  awful  words.  He 
closed  his  lips  suddenly  to  hold  back  the  gush  of  ice-water 
that  seemed  to  fill  his  mouth.  He  swallowed,  and  the  chill 
spread  throughout  his  body.  He  did  not  realise  it  at 
the  moment,  but  afterwards  he  was  to  recall  that  he  was 
experiencing  the  first  touch  of  a  blighting  fear  from 
which  he  was  never  afterwards  to  be  free:  the  fear  of 
Chetwynd. 

In  an  instant,  he  was  himself  again,  a  bit  greyer  than 
before  perhaps,  but  quite  as  austere. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  striking  my  table  in 
that  manner?  Try  to  govern  yourself,  sir,  or  leave  the 
room."  He  chose  to  resent  the  boy's  actions,  rather 
than  his  words.  Afterwards,  in  analysing  his  emotions, 
he  came  to  acknowledge  a  shameful  weakness  in  shrink 
ing  from  the  real  attack. 

"  I  swear,  Uncle  Horace,  so  help  me  God,  that  the 
drawing  sent  in  by  Chetwynd  is  the  one  I  made.  I  have 
never  seen  the  one  that  bears  my  name.  I  never  drew  it. 
Oh,  it  was  a  dirty  trick!  It  was  fiendish!  Uncle, 
you've  just  got  to  straighten  it  out.  He  took  my  draw 
ing.  I  don't  know  how  or  when,  but  it  is  mine  that  has 
his  name  on  it  over  at  the  library." 

Tears  of  rage  and  despair  filled  his  eyes. 

Mr.  Blagden  had  himself  well  in  hand  by  this  time. 

"  You  are  making  a  very  serious  charge  against  your 
cousin,  Eric,"  he  said  levelly.  "  I  cannot  permit  you  to 
go  on  in  this  way.  You  — " 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     119 

"  But  it  is  true !  *'  cried  Eric  wildly.  "  I  swear  it's 
true!" 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  WKy  should  I  believe  what 
you  say?  How  could  Chetwynd  have  come  into  posses 
sion  of  your  drawing?  You  kept  it  under  lock  and 
key ;  you  presented  it  to  the  committee  with  your  own 
hands,  did  you  not?  You  would  hardly  go  so  far  as  to 
accuse  the  honourable  judges  of  substituting  one  draw 
ing  for  the  other,  of  placing  my  son's  name  on  your 
work,  or  allowing  him  to  do  so,  if  it  could  have  gone 
that  far." 

"  But  it  is  my  drawing  and  it  has  his  name  on  it.  It 
wasn't  there  when  I  submitted  the  design  to  Mr.  Porter, 
the  librarian." 

"  Do  you  consider  this  a  sportsmanlike  manner  in 
which  to  take  defeat  ?  "  demanded  Horace  sneeringly. 

"  I  don't  consider  it  a  defeat,  Uncle  Horace,"  said 
Eric  deliberately.  "  My  drawing  won  the  prize." 

Mr.  Blagden's  stern  gaze  wavered  ever  so  slightly. 

"  If  you  placed  your  drawing  in  Mr.  Porter's  hands, 
then  what,  may  I  ask,  inspires  you  to  make  this  deliber 
ate  charge  against  my  son  ?  It  isn't  likely  he  could  have 
wished  his  name  to  appear  upon  it,  to  have  it  appear 
there  as  if  by  magic.  This  is  not  the  age  of  Aladdin." 

"  I  can't  understand  it  any  more  than  you,  sir,  but  it 
is  true,  just  the  same,"  cried  Eric  doggedly.  "  Mr. 
Porter  says  that  no  one  touched  the  drawings." 

"  Then,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  how  Chet 
wynd  could  have  done  this  thing  you  accuse  him  of 
doing?  "  demanded  Mr.  Blagden  sternly. 

"  I  think  it  was  done  before  I  submitted  the  drawing," 
said  Eric. 

"  Oh,"  was  his  uncle's  expressive  comment. 

**  I  wrapped  it  up  carefully  and  put  it  in  my  drawer 


120  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  day  before  I  presented  it.  It  was  not  unwrapped 
after  that.  Chetwynd  was  in  my  room  that  evening 
alone.  Mary  saw  him  there  and  he  said  he  was  looking 
for  a  scarf-pin  I  had  taken  from  his  room  without  per 
mission.  He  —  he  told  her  I  had  no  business  going  int» 
his  room,  that  he'd  missed  several  things,  and  —  and  — 
well,  he  as  much  as  said  I'd  taken  things  that  didn't  be 
long  to  me." 

Horace  smiled  with  grim  derisiveness.  "  It  is  possible 
he  had  as  much  right  to  accuse  you  as  you  have  to  ac 
cuse  him.  It  seems  to  me  his  case  is  as  good  as  yours." 

"I  am  not  a  thief!" 

"  He  might  say  the  same.  Did  he  find  the  scarf- 
pin?" 

Eric  flushed.  "He  told  her  he  found  it.  But  he 
lied!" 

"Eric!" 

"  He  lied!  " 

Mr.  Blagden's  face  grew  deathly  white  and  then 
turned  purple.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  advanced 
upon  the  boy,  a  furious  glare  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  scoundrel !  You  vilifier !  You  unhung  rascal ! 
How  dare  you  come  to  me  with  such  a  story  as  this  ?  "  He 
choked,  he  appeared  to  be  strangling.  Eric  shrank  back 
aghast.  No  one  had  ever  heard  a  blasphemous  word  on 
the  lips  of  Horace  Blagden,  but  now  Eric  was  to  listen 
to  a  torrent  of  wild  profanity  that  would  have  shocked 
even  the  walls  of  a  ship's  forecastle.  He  was  seized 
with  the  fear  that  his  uncle  had  gone  mad,  utterly  mad. 

"  Uncle ! "  he  cried,  putting  up  his  hands  as  if  to 
shield  himself  from  a  blow. 

"  I  could  kill  you  whei«  you  stand,  curse  you,"  hissed 
the  man.  A  great  light  broke  in  upon  him.  "Ah! 
Now  I  understand!  Now  I  can  see  how  a  man  justifies 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN 

himself  for  taking  another's  life.  By  heavens,  I  know 
how  sweet  it  would  be  to  kill !  "  In  his  frenzy,  he  looked 
about  for  a  deadly  weapon. 

Then,  as  suddenly,  his  whole  manner  changed.  He 
fell  back  against  the  table,  his  jaw  dropping,  an  ex 
pression  of  great  horror  crossing  his  face. 

"  Good  God,  help  me ! "  he  groaned,  shaking  as  with 
the  ague.  "  What  is  it  I  have  said?  What  is  it  that 
is  in  my  heart?  Murder?  Oh,  my  God!  " 

He  would  have  fallen  had  not  the  boy  leaped  forward 
to  catch  him  by  the  arm.  Mr.  Blagden  shook  him  off. 
Eric  fell  away,  moving  toward  the  door,  ready  to  flee 
from  this  amazing  figure,  this  unknown  being. 

His  uncle  turned  his  sodden  eyes  upon  him,  and  mo 
tioned  with  a  trembling  hand  for  him  to  stay. 

"  Stop !  Don't  run  away.  Wait,  Eric.  I  —  I  ask 
you  to  wait  here  until  —  until  I  — -"  Whatever  it  was 
that  he  meant  to  say,  the  words  were  not  uttered. 
Somehow  Eric  understood.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  and  watched  his  uncle  stagger  to  the  couch 
over  against  the  wall,  upon  which  he  dropped  as  if 
every  vestige  of  strength  had  deserted  hkn.  .*> 

The  minutes  passed  slowly.  The  picture  remained 
the  same.  The  wondering,  half-stupefied  boy  in  the 
middle  of  the  room ;  the  motionless  figure  on  the  couch, 
from  whose  lips  ever  and  anon  came  two  hoarsely  whis 
pered  words :  "  My  God !  "  ir 

The  shadows  of  dusk  crept  into  the  room  through 
the  high  windows ;  the  waning  light  of  the  summer  day 
looked  in  upon  the  strange  tableau,  and  vague  sounds 
from  the  street  came  but  without  the  power  to  disturb. 
Somewhere,  off  in  the  deserted  banking  room,  a  watch 
man  was  shuffling  about  and  whistling.  Eric  waited  for 
him  to  open  the  door  and  break  the  spell  that  had  fallen 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

over  the  president's  office.  Nothing  else,  it  seemed, 
could  shake  the  fetters  from  his  feet,  or  drive  the  warm 
blood  back  into  his  empty  veins.  Would  the  heavy- 
breathing  figure  on  the  couch  never  change  its  limp 
position?  Would  the  hand  never  be  drawn  away  from 
the  eyes  it  covered? 

At  last,  when  the  room  had  grown  quite  dark,  Horace 
Blagden  moved.  The  boy's  tense  figure  relaxed  so  sud 
denly  that  his  legs  almost  gave  way. 

"  Answer  the  telephone,  please,"  said  Mr.  Blagden, 
his  voice  calm  once  more,  but  weak. 

The  telephone  had  been  buzzing  for  a  minute  or 
longer.  Eric  grabbed  up  the  receiver. 

"  It  is  Aunt  Rena,"  he  said  hazily.  "  She  wants  to 
know  if  you  are  ill,, —  why  you  are  so  late  coming  home, 
Uncle." 

"  Tell  her  I  am  all  right  and  will  be  there  at  once." 

He  arose  from  the  couch,  taller,  more  gaunt  than  ever 
it  seemed  to  Eric  as  he  saw  him  through  the  gathering 
darkness. 

"  Eric,"  he  said,  from  his  position  near  the  couch, 
"  we  will  go  home  at  once.  Will  you  get  my  hat  and 
cane  from  the  closet?  " 

The  boy  hesitated.  "  I  can't  go  home  with  you 
now,  Uncle  Horace.  Not  after  what  I've  said  to  you." 

There  was  another  long  period  of  silence.  The  man's 
eyes  were  half-closed. 

"  Eric,"  he  said  at  last,  abject  weariness  in  his  voice, 
"  I  am  about  to  ask  a  great  favour  of  you.  Will  you 
let  this  matter  rest  for  awhile  ?  I  —  I  don't  know  what 
came  over  me.  It  was  not  like  anything  that  ever  has 
happened  to  me  before,  not  in  all  my  life.  I  seem  to 
have  gone  utterly  out  of  my  head.  Wait!  Please  do 


,  THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN      12S 

not  speak.  Listen  to  me.  I  am  about  to  confess  some 
thing  to  you.  When  you  first  came  into  this  room  and 
said  that  —  that  Chetwynd  had  taken  your  drawing,  I 
felt  that  you  spoke  the  truth.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
should  believe  this  of  my  own  son,  but  —  but  I  was  no 
more  able  to  help  it  than  it  was  in  my  power  to  check 
the  working  of  my  mind.  The  horrible  fit  of  anger, 
—  the  dreadful  language,  I  cannot  explain.  I  do  not 
understand  it  myself.  Wait!  Yes,  I  do  understand. 
It  was  because  I  knew  that  you  knew.  It  was  because 
there  was  no  one  else  on  whom  I  could  vent  my  rage 
and  shame.  I  hated  you,  Eric,  in  those  few  moments, 
those  awful  moments.  You  will  never  know  how  I  hated 
you.  Perhaps  you  can  understand  why.  I  wanted  to 
be  proud  of  Chetwynd.  You  struck  that  pride  a  deadly 
blow.  You  were  responsible  for  my  awakening.  I 
cried  out  as  the  sleeper  does  when  he  is  rudely  disturbed 
from  the  serenity  of  peaceful  slumber  —  I  cried  out  in 
anger  against  the  awakening.  I  wanted  to  kill  you. 
It  was  in  my  heart  to  do  so.  I  love  Chetwynd.  He 
is  all  that  life  holds  for  me.  Do  you  follow  me?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Eric,  still  in  a  maze. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  for  me  to  save  him.  He  shall 
not  go  down.  By  God,  he  shall  be  a  man.  I  will  lift 
him  up,  I  will  force  him  up.  He  shall  not  falter  again. 
I  have  never  failed  in  any  undertaking.  I  will  not  fail 
in  this.  He  must  be  absolved.  There  is  no  alternative. 
He  must  stand  right  with  the  world,  with  me,  and  with 
himself.  Now,  listen  to  me.  Don't  let  a  word  escape 
you.  I  thought  it  all  out  as  I  lay  there  on  the  couch. 
You  can  ruin  him,  perhaps, —  or  at  least  cast  discredit 
on  him.  It  is  my  duty  to  prevent  that  very  thing 
happening.  You  have  got  to  let  this  matter  rest." 


124  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  But,  Uncle,"  began  Eric. 

Mr.  Blagden  came  a  few  steps  nearer.  Even  in  the 
dim  light  Eric  could  see  the  exalted  light  in  his  eyes, 

"  There  is  no  alternative.  He  must  be  spared,  so 
that  I  may  help  him  while  my  hand  is  strong,  while  my 
love  is  great  and  capable  of  generosity.  I  shall  have 
to  ask  you  to  say  nothing  about  this  until  I  have  talked 
it  over  with  him.  There  may  be  some  mistake.  I  may 
be  wrong  in  my  conclusions.  God  knows  that  I  hope 
I  am.  I  would  give  all  that  I  possess  if  I  could  be 
sure  that  you  have  lied  to  me,  if  I  could  drive  out  of  my 
mind  that  first  revolting  doubt.  But  it  has  taken  root, 
the  seed  of  distrust  is  well-sown.  I  doubt  my  son.  I 
can  only  hope  that  his  side  of  the  story  may  not  be 
so  dark  as  I  fear  it  is.  There  may  be  extenuating 
circumstances."  A  great  hope  took  root  in  his  soul, 
and  he  voiced  it.  "  It  is  not  improbable  that  you  tried 
to  profit  by  his  ideas.  You  may  be  as  culpable  as  he 
is,  in  an  indirect  way.  Stop !  Do  not  defend  yourself. 
It  isn't  necessary.  I  am  merely  theorising.  I  recall 
that  the  two  designs,  as  presented,  are  along  the  same 
general  lines,  the  same  thought  is  expressed.  I  noted 
a  similarity.  He  may  have  been  justified  in  keeping 
you  from  realising  on  his  ideas  and  his  experience.  If 
he  discovered  in  any  way  that  you,  being  a  better 
draughtsman  than  he,  concluded  to  benefit  by  his  ideas 
after  coming  into  possession  of  them,  either  innocently 
or  maliciously  — " 

Eric's  indignation  burst  its  bounds. 

"  You  know  that  isn't  true,  Uncle  Horace,"  he  cried 
out.  "  I  never  saw  his  design,  I  never  talked  with  him 
about  it." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  if  he  declares  that  you 
did  take  — "  began  Mr.  Blagden  harshly. 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN      125 

But  he  could  not  deceive  himself.  He  bit  his  lip  and 
turned  his  face  away  for  an  instant. 

"  No,  Eric,"  he  went  on,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  I  won't 
put  it  that  way.  I  am  about  to  bare  myself  to  you, 
and  it  is  best  that  we  should  understand  each  other." 

He  paced  back  and  forth  across  the  room  several 
times,  his  brow  knitted,  his  hands  clasped  tightly  behind 
his  back. 

Eric  felt  a  sudden,  keen  sense  of  jubilation.  *'  Are 
you  going  to  have  Mr.  Presbrey  talk  it  over  with  him  ?  '* 
he  asked. 

Mr.  Blagden  stopped  in  his  tracks,  and  stared  at  the 
questioner. 

"  No,"  he  said,  bringing  his  lips  together  in  a  thin 
line.  "  This  is  not  a  matter  for  Presbrey  —  at  least, 
not  at  present.  My  boy,  I  am  desperate,  quite  desper 
ate.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  believe  this  thing  you 
have  told  me,  as  I  said  before,  but  I  do  believe  it.  I 
am  convinced  that  your  drawing  has  won  the  prize  that 
goes  to  Chetwynd.  I  don't  know  how  it  all  came  about. 
He  may  not  have  been  wholly  responsible,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  the  drawing  is  yours.  I  am  a  fair  man. 
I  grant  that  it  is  your  design.  But,  above  all  things, 
I  am  a  Blagden.  The  name  has  been  dragged  in  the  dust 
by  one  member  of  the  family, —  your  mother.  That, 
of  course,  is  something  you  could  not  have  helped.  But 
you  can  help  me  now  in  the  effort  to  keep  it  from  being 
further  dishonoured.  I  shall  expect  you  to  do  so.  It 
is  hard,  I  appreciate,  for  you  to  sit  back  calmly  and  see 
the  prize  go  to  another  under  the  conditions.  But  that, 
my  boy,  is  just  what  you  will  have  to  do." 

He  spoke  slowly,  emphasising  each  word  with  a  sort 
of  snapping  of  his  tongue  as  the  breath  escaped  from 
the  confinement  of  his  throat. 


126  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Eric,  perplexed. 

"  Just  this :  the  situation  must  remain  as  it  is.  You 
have  nothing  to  lose,  while  I,  your  aunt,  even  Chetwynd 
—  ah,  we  have  so  much  to  lose.  But  three  people  know 
of  this,  I  fancy  —  we  three.  Unless  —  ah,  but  I  am 
sure  you  could  not  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  say  any 
thing  to  Mr.  Porter  before  consulting  me.  I  can  see 
by  your  face  that  you  did  not  go  so  far  as  that." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Eric,  in  low,  uneven  tones,  "  that 
I  am  to  let  Chetwynd  have  the  prize  without  a  word  for 
myself?  " 

"  Yes.     That,  and  nothing  else." 

"  But  I  will  not  submit  to  — " 

"  You  will  do  just  as  I  say,  sir,"  said  his  uncle  calmly. 
"  As  I  have  said  before,  it  is  for  the  good  of  the  family. 
We  must  think  of  that,  you  and  I,  as  we  — " 

"  Why  should  I  think  of  your  family  ?  "  cried  Eric 
recklessly.  "  You've  never  thought  of  mine.  You  and 
Mr.  Presbrey  have  read  my  mother  and  father  into  hell- 
fire.  You  haven't  left  me  anything  to  be  grateful  for. 
I  won't  — " 

"  Stop,  sir !  Not  another  word.  The  cases  are  not 
parallel.  We  have  a  chance  to  save  a  boy's  soul,  as 
well  as  his  honour.  It  was  not  I  who  damned  Mary  and 
Philip  Midthorne.  They  saw  to  that  well  enough  for 
themselves.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you.  Forgive 
•  me." 

"  I  can't  forgive  everything,"  groaned  the  boy. 

"  You  owe  me  a  great  deal  more  than  you  can  ever 
realise.  It  was  I,  Eric,  who  took  you  and  Mary  by 
the  hand  and  lifted  you  up  from  the  dirt  into  which 
you  were  cast.  It  is  I  who  have  given  you  an  honoured, 
a  noble  place  in  the  world.  And  how?  By  means  of 
a  name  that,  of  itself,  stands  unsullied.  No  man  has 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     127 

ever  questioned  the  name  of  Blagden.  With  that  name 
to  support  you,  you  have  become  a  credit  and  a  — 
yes,  a  blessing  to  Corinth.  That  name  will  carry  you 
to  fields  of  greater  honour  and  distinction.  So  long  as 
it  is  behind  you  in  the  —  er  —  you  might  say  the  flesh 
and  blood,  you  have  nothing  to  fear.  I  represent  the 
name.  I  am  the  name.  If  I  cast  you  off,  the  world 
will  never  pick  you  up.  There  you  have  it.  Do  I  make 
myself  clear?  " 

It  did  not  occur  to  Eric  to  resent  the  sublime  egotism 
in  this  speech.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have  snick 
ered,  perhaps,  for  he  had  a  rare  sense  of  humour,  but 
now  he  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  seriousness 
of  his  uncle's  words. 

"Am  I  to  understand,  Uncle  Horace,  that  if  I  say 
anything  about  Chetwynd  stealing  my  — " 

"  Don't  use  that  word,"  snapped  Mr.  Blagden. 

"  If  I  mention  it,"  modified  the  boy,  "  you  will  kick 
me  out  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  have  anyone  about  me  who  wilfully, 
deliberately  seeks  to  destroy  the  credit  of  the  name  I 
bear,"  said  the  other,  succinctly. 

"  How  about  Chetwynd?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  argue  all  night  with  me?  " 

"  I  should  have  some  rights,  sir." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  talk  about  rights.  You  will 
have  them  when  the  proper  time  comes.  I  will  see  to 
that.  This  little  disappointment  you've  experienced  to 
day  is  but  a  trifle  in  the  harvest  of  pleasures  you  may 
reap  with  my  help  and  my  friendship.  Listen,  Eric. 
I  am  very  serious.  I  must  insist  that  you  look  at  this 
from  my  point  of  view.  It  means  so  much  to  me.  It 
can  mean  very  little  to  you.  In  a  week,  you  will  have 
forgotten  the  pangs  of  disappointment,  while  I  could 


128  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

never  hold  up  my  head  again  in  Corinth  if  you  were 
to  tell  this  story  to  the  world.  People  would  believe 
enough  of  it  to  make  life  a  hell  for  me.  I  could  not 
beat  it  down.  It  would  never  die.  And  Chetwynd's 
only  chance  would  be  gone.  He  can  be  saved.  He 
must  be  saved.  He  is  not  a  bad  boy  at  heart.  He  — 
he  has  been  spoiled." 

The  man's  lip  trembled,  and  his  voice  shook  ever  so 
slightly  in  the  utterance  of  this  humiliating  confession. 

It  was  on  the  point  of  Eric's  tongue  to  blurt  out 
the  ugly  tale  of  Chetwynd's  treatment  of  Mary,  but  he 
held  back  the  words.  This  was  an  affair  between  him 
and  Chetwynd. 

"  It's  hard,  mighty  hard,  Uncle  Horace,"  he  said, 
dropping  into  a  chair  and  putting  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  We  all  have  hard  duties  to  perform.  We  all  have 
harsh  debts  to  pay,  my  lad." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  Chetwynd,  if  I  do 
keep  still?  He  will  know  that  I  know.  It  —  it  will  be 
awkward." 

"  I  shall  demand  of  him  the  truth.  I  shall  compel  him 
to  go  to  you  and  admit  his  —  er  —  his  error.  You 
may  — " 

"  I'd  rather  you'd  not  ask  him  to  do  that,"  objected 
Eric,  in  stifled  tones.  "  It's  best  not  to  do  it.  Let 
it  go  as  it  is.  Say  what  you  like  to  him,  Uncle,  but 
don't  let  him  come  to  me  about  it.  I'll  —  I'll  let  it 
stand  as  it  is,  but  I  won't  have  anything  more  added 
to  it.  That's  what  it  would  mean  if  he  tried  to  apolo 
gise.  We  couldn't  get  through  with  it  gracefully,  that's 
all." 

Mr.  Blagden  placed  his  hand  on  the  bent  shoulder  of 
the  defeated  boy. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  see  it  as  you  should  see  it,  Eric. 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     129 

You  have  taken  the  proper  course,  believe  me.     I  shall 
not  forget  it.     It  is  understood,  then,  that  —  er,  ahem ! 

—  that  it  goes  no  farther?  ** 

"  Yes,  sir.     I'll  stand  for  it,"  in  muffled  tones. 

The  telephone  bell  tinkled  once  more.  Eric  waited 
until  his  uncle  motioned  for  him  to  take  the  message. 

His  aunt  was  on  the  wire,  asking  what  kept  them  at 
the  bank.  He  informed  her  they  were  starting  for  home 
at  once.  Then  she  said  something  that  brought  a  bit 
ter,  scornful  smile  to  his  lips.  He  waited  until  she  was 
through,  and  then  said : 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.     Don't  be  worried,  Aunt  Rena." 

"  Will  you  get  my  hat  and  stick  now  ?  We  will  be 
late  for  dinner.  Punctuality  is  a  virtue,  Eric,  that  is 
only  surpassed  by  unselfishness.  Ah,  thank  you." 

He  accepted  his  hat  and  cane  from  the  hands  of  his 
nephew,  carefully  placing  the  one  on  his  grey  head  and 
grasping  the  other  firmly. 

"  Smith  will  straighten  up  the  room.  He  must  be 
wondering  what  keeps  me  here  so  late.  It  is  quite  dark. 
Dear  me,  Smith  must  be  puzzled.  By  the  by,  Eric,  I 
may  go  to  Boston  this  week.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that 
I  can,  after  all,  arrange  to  take  the  room  you  want, 

—  I  might   say  covet, —  in   Cambridge   for  next  fall. 
You  remember  I  told  you  a  few  weeks  ago  it  wouldn't  be 
possible  on  account  of  the  expense.     Well,  I  think  it 
can  be  arranged." 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle,"  said  Eric,  rather  lifelessly. 

They  passed  out  of  the  building  and  descended  the 
broad  stone  steps  leading  to  the  sidewalk.  Street  lamps 
were  being  lighted  by  men  who  made  a  pretence  of  hur 
rying  up  and  down  the  quiet  thoroughfare.  Corinth 
was  still  using  the  primitive  gas-lamp  on  its  streets, 
although  the  world  at  large  had  been  illuminated  by 


130  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

electricity  for  years.  It  seems  that  Blagden  et  al.  owned 
the  lighting  franchise  for  the  town,  and  they  believed 
in  letting  well-enough  alone.  At  least,  until  they  could 
get  their  price  from  the  outside  capitalists  who  were 
ready  to  put  in  a  big  electric  plant.  The  Corinth  Elec 
tric  Light  Company  supplied  the  homes  and  the  business 
houses  with  light,  but  the  municipality  was  content,  per 
force,  to  cling  to  its  ancient  friend,  the  lamp  post, — 
staid  and  trusted  teetotaler  that  never  went  out  nights. 

Uncle  and  nephew  walked  side  by  side  up  the  narrow 
sidewalk,  homeward  bent.  They  were  silent  after  that 
last  magnanimous  effort  on  the  part  of  Horace,  each 
wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  not  any  of  which  possibly 
could  have  been  pleasant.  Eric  found  some  satisfaction 
in  the  discovery  of  a  weak  spot  in  his  uncle's  virtue, 
although  the  consolation  afforded  by  this  knowledge 
was  not  likely  to  provide  a  lasting  sense  of  victory. 
His  uncle  contaminated!  An  hour  before  he  would  not 
have  believed  it  possible.  But  now!  Where  would  it 
end?  How  far  would  an  ill-wind  carry  that  hitherto 
unswerving  craft  out  of  its  established  course?  What 
was  Horace  Blagden's  estimate  of  himself  to  be  as  time 
gave  it  a  chance  to  develop? 

As  for  the  tall,  gaunt  man  who  strode  beside  him, 
what  were  his  thoughts?  What  must  they  have  been, 
to  drag  down  his  shoulders  in  this  way  and  to  lower  a 
chin  that  never  had  drooped  before? 

They  entered  the  gate  in  the  stone  wall  guarding 
the  sanctity  of  the  grey  house  on  the  hill.  Not  until 
then  did  Horace  Blagden  give  sign  of  the  thoughts  that 
were  burning  in  his  brain.  He  stopped,  checking  Eric 
with  a  word. 

"  It  did  seem  to  me,  Eric,  on  seeing  the  two  draw 
ings,  that  the  one  bearing  your  name  was  crudely  done. 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     131 

I  could  not  understand  it.  I  was  amazed,  and  I  must 
say  I  was  gratified.  Now  I  understand.  You  could 
not  possibly  have  made  the  design  attributed  to  you. 
But  the  thing  that  puzzles  me  most,  is  how  Chetwynd, 
with  his  training  and  his  extra  preparation  for  the 
contest,  could  have  produced  such  a  miserable  botch.  He 
has  had  the  best  of  instruction  in  New  York.  I  —  I 
can't  see  why  he  did  not  do  better." 

Eric  had  his  own  private  opinion,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  the  point  of  advancing  it  at  this  time. 
Mr.  Blagden  would  find  out  soon  enough,  without  his 
help.  Still,  the  boy  could  not  quell  the  secret  joy  that 
filled  his  soul  as  he  contemplated  the  harsh  times  ahead 
of  Chetwynd,  and  the  bitter  things  that  his  uncle  and 
aunt  would  have  to  swallow.  The  thought  of  this  ac 
tually  revived  his  fallen  spirits.  The  future  would  pay 
handsomely  for  the  present;  he  could  afford  the  gloom 
of  to-day  in  view  of  to-morrow's  glory. 

"  Perhaps  he  didn't  consider  it  worth  while,"  he  ex 
plained. 

Horace  eyed  him  sharply.  "  If  he  didn't  consider  it 
worth  while,  why  should  he  have  gone  to  the  trouble 
to  —  But,  there,  we  were  to  say  no  more  about  it.  He 
shall  explain  for  himself.  We  can't  judge  him  un 
heard." 

They  went  forward.  As  they  came  into  the  shaft  of 
light  thrown  out  by  the  open  hall  door,  the  older  man. 
again  stopped.  This  time  he  grasped  Eric's  arm  in  a 
grip  of  iron. 

"  Eric,"  he  began  in  a  low,  tense  voice,  "  you  heard 
me  say  back  there  in  the  office  that  I  could  have  killed 
you.  Will  you  be  able  to  appreciate  my  state  of  mind 
when  I  tell  you  now  that  it  was  in  my  heart  to  kill  you 
if  you  refused  to  accede  to  my  demands  in  this  matter  2 


132  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

There  is  a  revolver  in  my  desk  drawer.  You  were  not 
to  have  gone  out  with  that  awful  story  on  your  lips. 
But  that  is  not  all.  It  would  have  died  there  in  that 
room,  for  no  one  would  been  alive  to  repeat  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  "  asked  Eric,  a  strange 
chill  running  through  him.  He  looked  up  into  the  hag 
gard  face  of  his  uncle  as  it  stood  out  clearly  in  the  light 
from  the  doorway.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Mr.  Blagden 
suddenly  had  grown  very  old. 

*      "  I  should  have  killed  myself  as  well,"  said  Horace 
Blagden  quietly. 

The  boy  stared  at  him  in  utter  amazement.  Sud 
denly  it  was  revealed  to  him  what  all  this  really  meant 
to  the  head  of  the  Blagden  family.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat;  there  was  a  rush 
of  moisture  to  his  eyes.  A  great,  perhaps  unwelcome 
wave  of  pity  for  the  man  swept  over  him. 

"  It's  all  right  now,  Uncle,"  he  murmured  brokenly. 

As  they  entered  the  hall,  Mrs.  Blagden  emerged  from 
the  library.  She  sent  a  swift,  searching  glance  into 
Eric's  eyes,  a  glance  expressing  doubt,  anxiety  and  no 
little  antipathy. 

Eric  smiled,  a  bitter,  scornful  little  smile,  the  real  in 
wardness  of  which  she  was  never  to  grasp. 

He  could  account  for  her  uneasiness.     He  had  but 
to  go  back  for  a  few  minutes  to  that  second  call  on  the 
j  telephone.     She  had  said  to  him  then,  in  accents  of  real 
despair  and  dread : 

"  You  are  not  telling  him  of  Chetwynd  and  Mary, 
are  you?  You  can't  be  such  a  beast,  such  a  dog  as  to 
forget  your  promise  to  me.  If  I  thought  you  were  tell 
ing  him,  I'd  turn  Mary  out  into  the  street  this  very 
minute,  because  I  know  your  uncle  would  insist  on  it 


THE  BENDING  OF  HORACE  BLAGDEN     138 

himself  when  he  got  home.     Have  you  breathed  it  to 
him?     Speak!     Why  do  you  hesitate?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.     Don't  be  worried,  Aunt  Reno," 
he  had  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN    FRIENDSHIP    CEASES 

CHETWYND  returned  from  New  York  two  days  later. 
He  was  closeted  with  his  father  for  more  than  two 
hours,  emerging  with  the  air  of  a  whipped  dog,  thor 
oughly  cowed,  but  filled  with  rage  against  Eric  Mid- 
thorne  and  his  own  father.  A  hang-dog  look  of  defi 
ance  crept  into  his  sullen  face  as  the  hours  went  by, 
hours  that  were  bringing  him  up  to  the  minute  when  he 
would  have  to  face  Eric  in  the  library,  just  before  the 
dinner  hour,  in  accordance  with  the  edict  pronounced  by 
his  father. 

The  two  young  men  came  face  to  face  at  six  o'clock, 
just  as  Horace  had  planned  they  should  do.  It  was 
part  of  Chetwynd's  expiation  that  he  should  confess 
himself  to  Eric.  They  were  to  have  no  listeners,  no 
witnesses.  Eric  was  surprised,  a  trifle  dismayed,  when 
they  came  upon  each  other,  to  all  appearances  in  an  ac 
cidental  manner. 

Chetwynd's  method  of  acknowledging  his  deed  was 
characteristic  of  him,  but  hardly  what  Mr.  Blagden,  in 
his  justice,  intended.  He  came  close  to  Eric,  his 
clenched  hands  stuffed  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  his 
lower  jaw  protruding  and  his  heavy  brows  drawn  tightly 
together. 

"  You  infernal  sneak !  You  son  of  a  —  No,  Father 
particularly  requested  me  not  to  use  that  word,  so  I 
won't  say  it.  But  you  know  what  I  mean." 

That  was  his  way  of  confessing. 

Eric  simply  grinned,  and  turned  away,  leaving  his 

134 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  135 

big  cousin  more  impotently  furious  than  he  ever  had  been 
in  his  life. 

The  next  morning,  Eric  came  upon  Adam  Carr  in  a 
most  unexpected  manner.  That  dour-faced  individual 
was  seated  on  Judge  Bright's  front  porch  when  the 
young  man  appeared  there  to  ask  Joan  to  let  him  take 
snap-shots  of  her  with  the  new  camera  his  aunt  had  just 
given  to  Mary.  Chetwynd  had  been  commissioned  to 
buy  it  in  New  York.  Mary  had  cried  over  it,  and,  in 
the  privacy  of  the  back  hall,  declared  to  Eric  that  she 
would  never  use  it  because  it  would  show  them  that  her 
silence  was  purchaseable. 

"  Well ! "  Eric  cried  out  to  Adam  Carr.  "  When  did 
you  get  back?  " 

Adam's  sour  smile  appeared  and  faded  in  a  breath. 
"  Why  don't  you  ask  the  question  you  really  meant 
to  ask?"  he  demanded  amiably.  "What  am  I  doing 
here?  That's  your  question.  Well,  I'm  sitting  here. 
Now  I'll  answer  one  you  just  put  to  me.  I  got  back 
yesterday,  on  the  eleven-ten." 

"  That's  the  train  Chetwynd  came  on." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  asked  Adam  politely,  but  without  inter 
est. 

"  He  has  been  in  New  York." 

"  Strange  I  didn't  run  across  him  there.  New  York's 
such  a  small  burg.  You're  always  seeing  people  you 
know.  I  hope  you've  not  come  up  to  take  Miss  Joan 
out  for  another  swim." 

"  I  should  say  not !     No  more  of  that  for  me." 

"  Judge  Bright's  at  home.  I  fancy  he'd  put  in  a 
kick." 

*'  Are  you  waiting  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Oh?  "  somewhat  dashed. 


136  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  He's  waiting  to  see  me.*' 

"  He's  waiting?     I  don't  understand     Where?" 

"  That  is,  he's  waiting  for  me  to  put  in  an  appear 
ance." 

"Well?  You're  here,  aren't  you?"  asked  Eric 
blankly. 

"  Yea,  but  he  doesn't  know  it.  He's  waiting  for  me 
to  ring  the  door  bell.  But  I  saw  you  coming  along  be 
hind  me,  so  I  thought  I'd  stop  and  say  howdy  to  you. 
How  does  your  sister  like  her  camera  ?  " 

Eric  started.  "  How  did  you  know  she  had  a  new 
camera?  " 

"  It  came  from  Baxter's,  it  cost  twenty-seven  dollars, 
and  it  has  her  initials  stamped  in  gold  on  the  inside  of 
the  box." 

Eric  opened  "  the  box  "  as  he  called  it,  and  looked 
inside.  He  saw  the  initials  for  the  first  time.  They 
were  so  minute  he  could  hardly  distinguish  them.  He 
whistled  in  astonishment. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  hanged ! "  he  gasped,  looking  at  the 
man  in  genuine  wonder. 

"  You  thought  it  cost  sixty,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"That's  what  it  did  cost,"  cried  the  other.  "Aunt 
Rena  told  me  so.  You  missed  fire  that  time." 

"  Who  told  her  it  cost  sixty?  " 

"  She  gave  Chetwynd  sixty  —  By  George !  I  see ! 
He  —  he  kept  the  balance  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  put  it  just  that  way,"  said  Adam 
softly.  "  He  couldn't  keep  something  he  didn't 
hare." 

"  Don't  speak  in  riddles,"  cried  Eric. 

"  He  had  just  thirty  dollars  when  he  went  into  Bax 
ter's.  I  daresay  he  kept  the  three  dollars  for  a  cab 
and  breakfast  on  the  train.  He  couldn't  keep  the 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  137 

extra  thirty,  for  the  simple  reason  that  someone  else 
was  keeping  it  for  him." 

"  What  the  dickens  — " 

**  Now  don't  resort  to  profanity.  It's  a  very  bad 
habit  for  one  to  get  into,"  said  Adam,  with  tantalising 
seriousness. 

With  unseemly  abruptness  Eric  sat  down  beside  him 
on  the  porch  seat.  His  eyes  glowed  with  a  great  light 
of  understanding  as  he  gripped  Adam  Carr's  sturdy 
leg  in  his  eager  fingers,  and  almost  whispered  the  ques 
tion: 

"I  say,  Mr.  Carr,  were  you  shadowing  Chetwynd?" 

Adam  appeared  distinctly  amazed. 

"  Well,  well !     What  put  that  into  your  head?  " 

"  Why  should  you  be  watching  him?  "  demanded  the 
other,  tremendously  excited. 

"  I  wasn't  watching  him,"  said  Mr.  Carr,  severely. 
"  I  just  happened  to  be  in  Baxter's  at  the  time.  I 
couldn't  help  hearing  the  conversation.  I  repeat  your 
question:  Why  should  I  be  watching  him?  Has  he 
done  anything  wrong  ?  " 

Eric  was  baffled.     Suddenly  he  renewed  the  assault. 

"  Then  why  did  you  say  someone  else  was  keeping 
the  money  for  him  ?  "  he  demanded  shrewdly. 

Adam's  face  became  positively  sphinx-like.  He 
looked  out  over  the  mass  of  rose  bushes  on  the  lawn. 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  cried  Eric. 

"  Well,  some  day  I  may  tell  you  one,"  announced 
Adam  in  his  most  confidential  manner. 

"Oh,  pshaw!" 

"  You  can  begin  keeping  it  right  now.  There's  more 
to  come.  Don't  repeat  this  conversation." 

"  But  can't  you  tell  me  something  — " 


138  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  No.  You  see,  it's  a  secret.  I  never  tell  secrets  so 
long  as  they  are  secrets.  I'm  like  you  in  that  respect." 

The  expression  on  Eric's  face  betrayed  the  groping 
of  his  mind  after  a  vague,  indefinite  thought  that  had 
flitted  across  his  inner  vision  like  a  flash  of  light.  It 
came  and  swiftly  passed  but  it  left  an  impression  that 
developed  into  something  tangible  with  a  suddenness 
that  caused  him  to  gasp. 

"  By  George ! "  he  cried,  searching  the  inscrutable 
face  with  gleaming  eyes.  "  Uncle  Horace  hasn't  set 
you  to  watching  Chetwynd,  has  he  ?  " 

"7  —  should  —  say  —  not!  "  exclaimed  Adam  Carr, 
with  an  amazed  look  at  the  questioner.  It  was  his  turn 
to  be  puzzled.  Mr.  Carr  was  never  surprised.  "  Why 
should  he  want  to  have  him  watched?  " 

Eric  caught  the  cunning,  eager  gleam  in  the  man's 
eyes,  and  hesitated.  There  was  something  back  of  all 
this  that  he  could  not  understand,  and  he  began  to  feel 
the  wisdom  of  keeping  a  close  tongue  in  his  head.  After 
all,  who  was  Adam  Carr?  What  were  his  secret  mo 
tives? 

"  I  just  asked,  that  is  all,"  he  said  quickly.  The 
other  merely  grunted. 

"  I  guess  I'll  ring  the  bell  now,"  he  said,  arising  a 
moment  later.  Eric  started  to  ask  another  question, 
but  thought  better  of  it.  He  looked  at  the  sturdy  back 
and  thick  neck  of  the  man  who  pulled  the  bell-knob,  and 
thought  not  of  a  bull-dog,  but  of  a  bloodhound.  There 
was  something  cruel  and  relentless  in  the  back  of  the 
strange  man,  in  keeping  with  the  face  of  him.  The  boy 
experienced  the  sudden,  uncanny  sensation  of  an  endur 
ing  closeness  to  Adam  Carr,  as  if  he  had  known  him  in 
timately,  in  some  form  or  another,  all  his  life,  and  al 
ways  would  know 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  139 

Oddly  enough,  and  concurrent  with  the  strange  im 
pression,  Adam  turned  after  pulling  the  bell  and  said : 

"  I  like  you.  We'll  be  good  friends  for  a  long  time, 
mark  my  word.  Long  as  we  both  shall  live,  I  hope." 

Judge  Bright  himself  came  to  the  door  in  response  to 
the  tinkling  of  the  bell. 

"  Ah,  Carr,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  waiting  for  you. 
Good  morning,  Eric." 

He  came  out  to  the  porch  and  shook  hands  with  the 
youth,  but  did  not  offer  to  do  the  same  with  Adam 
Carr.  Eric  noticed  the  omission  and  wondered.  All 
thought  of  it  was  driven  from  his  mind  an  instant  after 
ward,  when  Judge  Bright,  still  clasping  his  hand,  bent 
his  head  slightly  forward  and  looked  with  searching 
intentness  into  his  eyes.  For  a  moment  the  great  jurist 
appeared  to  be  studying  the  boy's  face  as  if  it  were 
something  in  which  he  sought  to  discover  a  flaw.  Then, 
the  hand  pressure  was  renewed,  more  warmly  than  be 
fore,  and  the  eyes  of  the  Justice  grew  kind  and  generous 
as  he  said,  positive  relief  in  his  voice : 

"  You'll  find  Joan  in  my  study,  Eric." 

His  manner  puzzled  the  young  fellow  not  a  little. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  this  great  judge  of  men  had 
acquitted  him  of  crime,  as  he  might  have  passed  judg 
ment  on  a  prisoner  in  the  dock  after  hearing  insufficient 
evidence  against  him.  What  could  it  all  mean? 
Vaguely  disturbed  in  his  mind,  he  entered  the  house, 
leaving  the  two  men  on  the  porch.  Looking  back,  he 
saw  them  descend  the  steps  and  walk  slowly  across  the 
lawn  toward  a  stone  bench  in  the  shade  of  the  vine-cov 
ered  wall. 

"  Hello,"  he  said  as  he  entered  the  Judge's  study, 
addressing  the  girl  in  pink,  who  sat  in  the  window  seat 
looking  out  over  the  lawn.  Her  attitude  was  one  of 


140  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

extreme  pensiveness.  She  sat  with  her  elbow  on  the 
window  ledge,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  one  leg  curled  up 
under  her,  one  small  foot  and  ankle  hanging  free.  She 
started  as  if  aroused  from  a  dream. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it's  you.  I  didn't  hear  you  come 
in." 

"  I've  been  chatting  on  the  porch  with  —  I  say,  Joan, 
what  is  Adam  Carr  doing  here  ?  What's  up  ?  "  He 
crossed  the  room  and  stopped  beside  her.  She  hesi 
tated,  and  then  made  room  for  him  on  the  seat.  He 
was  struck  by  the  wistful,  inquiring  expression  in  her 
tender  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,  Eric.  I  wish  I  did,"  she  said. 
"  Father  sent  for  him  this  morning.  I  —  I  — "  She 
looked  away,  undecided,  and  then  returned  her  gaze  to 
meet  his  questioning  eyes.  "  Eric,  Mrs.  Blagden  was 
here  yesterday  afternoon  with  Mrs.  Presbrey.  They 
talked  to  me  about  —  about  that  night  we  spent  on  the 
reef.  I  —  I  think  Mr.  Carr  is  here  to  see  father  about 
it." 

His  brow  clouded.  "  What  could  they  have  to  say 
about  that  night?  "  he  demanded. 

She  found  it  difficult  to  reply  at  once.  When  she 
spoke  it  was  in  low  tones,  suggestive  of  tears  that  had 
come  and  gone. 

"  Mrs.  Presbrey  came  expressly  to  tell  me  that  it  was 
very  wrong  to  have  gone  out  sailing  with  you,  and  that 
« — '  that  people  are  talking  about  us.  She  said  the  only 
way  to  stop  the  —  the  talk  was  for  us  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  each  other." 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  cold  to  the  marrow. 

'*  Nothing  more  to  do  with  each  other?  "  he  repeated, 
»lowly. 

"  Your  aunt  said  she  felt  in  duty  bound  to  warn  me 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  141 

against  too  close  an  intimacy  with  —  with  Mary.  She 
said—" 

"  What !  "  He  began  to  see  things  blood  red  before 
his  eyes.  "  What ! "  he  almost  shouted. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  she  said.  I  am  only  telling 
you,  so  that  you  may  know,"  she  cried  hastily,  alarmed  by 
the  expression  in  his  eyes.  "  She  said  it  was  the  most 
humiliating  thing  she  ever  had  to  do  in  all  her  life,  but 
that  her  conscience  and  her  love  for  me  prompted  her  to 
tell  me  that  Mary  is  not  always  what  she  should  be. 
She  said  she  could  never  forgive  herself  if  I  fell  into 
her  ways,  unsuspectingly.  Oh,  yes,  and  she  said  that 
she  and  your  uncle  were  doing  all  in  their  power  to  curb 
a  hereditary  tendency  to  —  Eric !  " 

He  had  sprung  to  his  feet  with  a  moan  of  rage  and 
despair,  clapping  his  hands  to  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out 
some  horrid,  devilish  sight. 

"  Oh,  Eric,  I  shouldn't  have  told  you,"  she  cried 
tremulously. 

"  My  poor  little  Mary,  my  little  angel  Mary,"  he 
groaned.  Suddenly  he  dropped  down  beside  her  again, 
clutching  her  hand  in  both  of  his.  "  Joan,  I'll  —  111 
do  something  dreadful  to  that  woman.  I'll  kill  her.  Fll 
make  her  pay  for  this.  She's  a  liar.  I'm  going  to  take 
Mary  away.  I  won't  let  her  stay  in  that  cursed  house 
any  longer.  Why  —  why,  she's  as  good  as  gold,  Mary 
is.  She  hasn't  an  evil  thought  in  her  whole  being. 
You  know  that,  Joan,  don't  you?  She  loves  you  better 
than  anybody  in  the  world.  Why  should  that  devil 
of  a  woman  try  to  hurt  her  like  this  ?  I  don't  see  — " 

"  Eric,  listen !  What  she  said  to  me  will  never  change 
my  love  for  Mary.  I  told  her  so.  You  must  think  it 
cruel  in  me  to  have  told  you,  but  there  is  a  reason. 
She  said  they  were  going  to  send  Mary  off  to  a  private 


142  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

boarding  school  —  to  Miss  Lex's.  You  know  what  sort 
of  a  place  it  is.  People  send  girls  there  when  they  can't 
manage  them  at  home.  It's  like  a  reform  school,  a  place 
for  incorrigibles.  Oh,  Eric,  she  must  not  be  sent  to  that 
dreadful  school." 

He  set  his  jaw  after  the  first  spasm  of  dismay  had 
gone  out  of  his  face. 

"  She'll  not  go  there,"  he  said,  clenching  his  hands 
until  the  nails  hurt  the  flesh.  "  I  know  a  way  to  stop 
that  little  scheme." 

His  soul  glowed  with  triumph.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  blow  he  could  strike  in  return,  a  harrowing  blow  at 
the  very  heart  of  Blagden  pride. 

Joan  went  on  with  nervous  haste,  purging  her  mind 
of  all  that  oppressed  it.  "  Mrs.  Presbrey  said  she  hoped 
no  one  would  ever  hear  that  I  removed  my  shoes  and 
stockings.  People  wouldn't  overlook  such  immodesty. 
Why,  Eric,  you  didn't  think  I  was  doing  wrong  at  the 
time,  did  you?  "  She  was  blushing. 

"  Mrs.  Presbrey  is  a  narrow-minded  jay,"  was  his 
specific  rejoinder. 

"  Your  aunt  went  on  to  say  that  Mr.  Blagden  was 
coming  up  this  afternoon  to  assure  father  he  wouldn't 
consider  it  a  personal  affront  if  he  forbade  you  coming 
to  see  me,  as  you've  been  doing  since  we  got  home  safely 
from  Eddy's  Islands." 

Eric's  smile  was  a  grim  one.  "  I'll  bet  my  head  he 
doesn't  come,"  he  said.  "  See  here,  Joan,  what  is  it 
you  are  trying  to  get  at  ?  Don't  you  want  me  to  come  ? 
Are  you  afraid  to  be  seen  with  me?  " 

"  No,  no !  "  she  cried.     "  You  know  better  than  that." 

"  Then  you  do  like  to  have  me  come  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  do.  That  is,  if  you  care  to  come.'* 
The  last  was  a  maidenly  after-thought. 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  143 

"  I'm  awfully  keen  about  you,  Joan,"  he  said,  a  warm 
flush  mantling  his  cheek.  The  remark  seemed  to  put 
an  effective  curb  on  conversation.  Neither  could  think 
of  anything  to  say,  and  one  of  those  silences  ensued  in 
which  the  heart-beats  are  painfully  loud  and  the  flesh 
creeps  in  delicious  dread. 

"  Father  is  very  fond  of  you,"  she  said  at  last,  with 
an  effort. 

"  I've  always  thought  you  didn't  like  me,"  he  said, 
ignoring  her  remark.  "  You  seemed  to  despise  me,  up 
to  the  day  we  went  sailing." 

"  How  perfectly  silly !  " 

"  Well,  you  did,"  he  insisted  doggedly. 

"  I  don't  like  you  a  bit  more  now  than  I  ever  did," 
she  said  calmly. 

It  was  an  ambiguous  confession  and  he  did  not  grasp 
it  at  once. 

"I  —  I'm  sorry,"  he  muttered. 

"  Well,  it's  the  truth,"  she  asseverated,  conscious  of  a 
thrill  of  satisfaction  in  her  own  cleverness. 

He   could   think   of  nothing  better   to   do   than   to 
shrug  his  shoulders,  and  deliberately  change  the  sub 
ject. 

/      "  Well,  leaving  me  out  of  it,  are  you  going  to  cut 
Mary?" 

"  How  can  you  ask?  "  she  cried  indignantly.  "  I  love 
her." 

His  face  brightened.  "  Good !  Just  you  be  nice  to 
her,  and  I'll  —  I'll  die  for  you.  Don't  let  'em  turn  you 
against  her.  And  say,  she  isn't  going  to  Miss  Lex's, 
remember  that." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  her  away  ?  "  she  cried  in 
alarm. 

"Oh,    but    I'd    like   to,"    he    exclaimed.     "I    must 


144  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

think  of  a  way.  We  can't  stay  there.  I  won't  have  her 
insulted  by  — " 

"  Eric,  listen  to  me,"  she  said  earnestly.  Her  dark, 
serious  eyes  were  full  of  compassion,  but  in  their  depths 
there  was  something  that  steadied  him.  "  You  must 
not  do  anything  rash.  There  is  too  much  at  stake. 
You  can't  afford  to  take  Mary  away  from  —  from  a 
home,  no  matter  how  unpleasant  it  may  be  for  her  now." 

"  But  I  will  be  in  college  next  winter,"  he  groaned. 
"  Who  will  there  be  then  to  protect  her  from  —  them?  " 
He  was  about  to  say  Chetwynd,  for  his  cousin  had  been 
uppermost  in  his  thoughts  all  the  time.  "  Joan,  it's 
getting  too  hard  to  bear.  I'm  almost  a  man.  I  can 
look  out  for  her  any  place  in  the  world.  I'll  give  up 
college  and  work  for  her.  I'll  work  in  the  streets  if 
that  will  — " 

"  And  you  might  compel  her  to  take  to  the  streets, 
too,"  she  said.  The  worldliness  of  this  sage  remark 
caused  him  to  stare  hard  at  her. 

"You  don't  think  that?" 

She  veered.  "  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to 
propose  to  Mrs.  Blagden.  I  am  going  to  ask  her  to  let 
Mary  go  to  the  Sinnox  school  with  me  next  winter.  It 
is  lovely  there." 

"  By  George,  that  would  be  great !  " 

"  We  could  room  together.  I  know  she  can  get  in  if 
Mr.  Blagden  writes  to  Miss  Drake,  the  principal. 
Mary's  nearly  sixteen.  If  Mrs.  Blagden  only  will  con 
sent." 

Eric  struck  his  knees  with  his  clenched  fist  to  em 
phasise  his  next  remark.  "  She'll  consent,  all  right. 
She'll  just  have  to.  That's  a  great  idea,  Joan,  and  it's 
fine  of  you  to  think  of  it"  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  re- 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  145 

lief.  "  It  will  make  things  easier  all  around.  I've  been 
worried  half  to  death  about  leaving  her." 

"  But  you  must  give  up  the  thought  of  taking  her 
away  with  you,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  I  have  been  afraid 
that  you  might  really  run  away  sometime.  You  must 
not  do  that,  Eric.  I  couldn't  bear  it." 

"  Why  —  why,  you  are  crying,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  couldn't  bear  it,"  she  sobbed.  Still  he  did  not 
recognise  the  true  motive  behind  all  her  distress  and 
anxiety.  He  could  not  see  the  heart  of  her  as  it  lay 
swimming  in  the  moist,  tell-tale  eyes.  He  only  knew 
that  she  loved  Mary.  "  Don't  mind  me,"  she  said,  dry 
ing  her  eyes  and  smiling.  "  I'm  so  silly." 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  could  tell  you  —  if  I  dared  to  — "  he 
stammered  in  the  despair  of  wild  adoration. 

Like  a  sensitive  animal,  t>he  took  alarm,  and  shrank 
back  into  the  corner  of  the  window  seat.  Her  instinct 
told  her  that  there  was  danger  in  the  air, —  the  joyous 
danger  she  courted  but  still  was  afraid  to  face. 

"  You  are  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world,"  he  went 
on,  "  and  the  nicest,"  he  added  hastily,  fearful  of  the 
way  she  would  take  the  outburst. 

She  frowned, —  a  very  pretty  frown,  but  desolating. 
He  took  it  to  be  a  sign  of  her  displeasure.  He  had  gone 
too  far.  He  had  offended  her.  Did  he  but  know  it,  how 
ever,  there  would  have  been  no  frown  if  the  last  three 
words  had  been  left  unsaid. 

Joan,  from  her  position,  saw  her  father  and  Adam 
Carr  leave  the  stone  bench  and  walk  together  toward  the 
front  gate. 

"  Mr.  Carr  is  going,"  she  said,  singularly  interested 
in  what  was  going  on  out-of-doors.  He  leaned  for 
ward  to  look,  and  accidentally  their  hands  touched. 


146  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

They  drew  them  apart  as  if  each  had  come  in  contact 
with  a  burning  coal.  They  laughed  convulsively,  in 
apology. 

"  He's  a  strange  man,"  said  Eric  hastily,  covering 
his  confusion.  Then  his  face  clouded.  "  I  say,  your 
father  looked  at  me  in  a  mighty  strange  way  out  there. 
Just  as  if  I  had  been  doing  something  I  shouldn't  have 
done." 

She  hesitated,  uncertain  whether  to  add  to  his  distress 
of  mind  or  to  complete  what  she  had  set  out  to  do  in  the 
beginning. 

"  Your  aunt  told  him  yesterday  that  she  is  afraid  of 
you,  Eric,"  she  blurted  out  wrathfully.  "  She  says 
you  once  tried  to  kill  Chetwynd,  and  that  sometimes 
she  catches  a  —  a  murderous  look  in  your  eyes  when  she 
offers  even  the  slightest  reproof  or  advice." 

Eric  laughed.  He  was  able  now  to  enjoy  the  situa 
tion.  "  They  expect  me  to  slaughter  someone  before 
I  die,"  he  chuckled. 

"  She  was  very  serious  about  it,"  protested  Joan,  dis 
pleased  by  his  levity.  "  She  says  that  Mr.  Presbrey 
works  with  you  by  the  hour,  trying  to  —  Please  don't 
laugh ! "  she  cried,  pouting.  "  I  shan't  tell  you  any 
thing  more." 

"  I  can't  help  laughing,"  he  said.  "  Don't  begrudge 
me  the  chance  to  laugh  at  Mr.  Presbrey.  Why,  Joan, 
he  gets  me  off  in  a  corner  and  prays  over  me  as  if  I 
were  the  original  sheep  that  was  lost  from  the  other 
ninety  and  nine.  I'm  half-way  to  the  bad  place  all  the 
time,  according  to  him,  and  he's  in  a  continual  scrap 
with  the  devil  over  my  remains.  But  I  have  good  news 
for  you:  Mr.  Presbrey  says  I've  got  a  splendid  chance 
to  get  into  heaven  in  spite  of  all  that.  All  I  have  to  do  is 
to  follow  him.  He'll  get  me  in,  slick  as  a  whistle.  He's 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  147 

going  to  get  Mary  in,  too.  He's  got  Uncle  Horace 
and  Aunt  Rena  waiting  at  the  gate  right  now.  All  they 
have  to  do  to  get  in  is  to  die.  Chetwynd,  too." 

"  You  shouldn't  scoff,"  she  cried,  but  smiled  in  spite 
of  the  reproof. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  that  your  father  doesn't  believe  I'm 
as  bad  as  they  make  me  out,"  he  said  soberly.  "  He  — 
he  shook  hands  with  me  twice  out  there,  and  told 
me  I'd  find  you  here.  That  shows  what  he  thinks  of 
me." 

Her  face  brightened,  a  glorious  light  suffused  her 
eyes,  her  lips  parted  in  a  warm,  glad  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  Eric.  I  —  I  was  afraid  he  might 
be  prejudiced  against  you.  You  know  how  much  store 
he  sets  by  Mr.  Blagden.  And  he  can  be  very  hard  when 
he  wants  to  be.  He  —  he  has  to  be  heartless  some 
times,  my  father  does." 

Eric  returned  her  smile  with  one  equally  enveloping. 
Suddenly  the  shackles  of  fear  and  self-restraint  fell 
away  from  him.  His  heart  leaped  up  and  in  one  swift 
rush  overcame  the  timid  brain  that  stood  in  its  way.  It 
swept  all  resistance  aside  and  triumphed  over  reason. 
The  look  in  her  warm,  sweet  eyes  did  the  work.  With 
a  half -cry,  he  slipped  from  the  seat  and  sprang  to  her 
side.  Before  either  really  knew  what  had  happened  his 
arms  were  around  her  and  he  had  kissed  her,  eagerly, 
bravely,  full  upon  the  lips. 

"  Oh,  Joan,  Joan,"  he  whispered.  She  did  not  move, 
but  closed  her  eyes,  and  appeared  to  have  stopped 
breathing.  Then  he  felt  a  dreadful  fear  stealing  over 
him.  As  the  chill  of  shame  and  remorse  began  to  creep 
over  him,  the  slender  body  quivered  in  his  arms,  and  her 
hand  caught  one  of  his  as  it  was  about  to  be  withdrawn. 
She  convulsively  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  Then  her  eyes 


148  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

opened  and  looked  into  his.  Tears  swam  in  them  as  he 
looked  down,  dazed  and  unbelieving. 

"  Eric,  Eric,"  she  whispered,  so  softly,  so  timidly 
that  he  could  hardly  hear  the  word.  "  You  dear,  dear 
Eric." 

He  was  dumb  with  joy.  His  lips  moved,  but  the 
words  remained  smothered  in  his  throat.  She  turned  her 
head  on  his  breast  and  began  to  cry  softly.  Physical 
expression  of  love  was  new  and  bewildering  to  them. 
They  were  amazed,  frightened,  abashed. 

"  Are  —  are  we  going  to  be  sweethearts  ?  "  he  asked, 
out  of  the  maze  of  strange  sensations.  He  only  knew, 
or  felt,  that  something  vital  was  expected  of  him  in  this 
wonderful  moment,  something  decisive,  and  honourable, 
and  exacting.  Her  hand-clasp  tightened  with  involun 
tary  fervour.  She  hid  her  shamed  face  more  completely 
in  its  resting  place,  and  a  delicious  pink  covered  her 
cheek  and  the  little  ear  that  was  left  exposed.  He  re 
peated  the  question,  almost  breathless  with  the  eager 
ness  that  filled  his  soul,  tingling  from  head  to  foot  with 
the  exquisite  agony  of  a  joy  that  was  growing  so  full 
and  commanding  that  he  could  understand  it,  even  as 
he  doubted  his  senses. 

The  faintest  nod  of  the  head  answered  him.  He 
caught  his  breath,  striving  to  find  an  outlet  for  his  feel 
ings.  The  words  came  in  a  whisper: 

"  I  —  I've  had  dreams,  but  they  were  never  like  this. 
Oh,  I've  dreamed  it  a  thousand  times.  I  never  thought 
it  could  be  reaL  Are  you  sure,  Joan  ?  It  isn't  because 
I'm  so  strong  you  —  you  can't  get  away,  is  it?  You 
are  not  angry  — " 

"  No,  no !  I  —  I'm  not  angry,  Eric,"  she  cried  softly. 
"  Oh,  I'm  so  ashamed.  You  —  you  don't  think  Pm 
bold  and—" 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  149 

He  kissed  her  again,  triumphantly.  The  eternal 
man  in  him  was  solving  the  problem.  Victory!  Con 
quest  !  That  is  the  man  of  it. 

"  I  didn't  believe  it  could  ever  happen,"  he  cried, 
aglow  with  bliss.  "I  —  I  don't  see  how  I  ever  got  up 
the  courage  to  do  it.  Why,  until  now,  I  thought 
you  liked  me  just  on  Mary's  account.  What  funny 
things  girls  are.  And  you've  been  liking  me, —  like 
this,— all  the  time?" 

"  Not  like  this,"  she  said  wistfully,  looking  up  for 
the  first  time  and  meeting  his  eyes.  "  I'd  never  thought 
of  this." 

"  We'll  be  sweethearts  forever, — "  he  hesitated  and 
then  uttered  the  word  for  the  first  time,  shyly,  awk 
wardly, — "  darling." 

"  If  you  will  always  like  me,"  she  murmured. 

"  You  won't  let  anybody  come  between  us,  will  you  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "  You'll  not  let  them  change  you  with 
their  stories  about  me?  " 

"  As  if  they  could !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  Eric,  you 
must  not  do  that !  Suppose  that  father  came  in,  or  one 
of  the  maids.  Please,  please !  " 

"  I'm  so  happy  I  can't  help  —  That  reminds  me, 
Joan."  He  took  his  arms  from  around  her  and  stood 
erect,  his  face  very  serious. 

"  I've  got  to  speak  to  your  father,"  he  announced, 
but  with  an  utter  absence  of  determination.  "  A  gen 
tleman  never  asks  a  girl  to  marry  him  until  he's  seen  — " 

She  started  up,  all  a-flutter.  "I  —  I  haven't  said  I'd 
marry  you,"  she  cried.  "  You  haven't  asked  me.  We're 
too  young  to  talk  about  — " 

"  There  you  go !  "  he  cried  bitterly. 

"  You  mustn't  be  foolish,  Eric,"  she  pleaded.  "  Don't 
tell  father,  not  just  yet.  He  would  laugh  at  us.  And 


160  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

he  might  put  a  stop  to  everything, —  to  our  seeing  eacH 
other  and  all  that.  Don't  you  see?  There's  plenty  of 
time.  It  is  all  going  to  be  so  sweet  and  dear,  to  love 
each  other  in  secret, —  just  between  ourselves,  with  no 
one  to  say  whether  we  may  or  may  not.  You  —  you 
might  spoil  everything  by  going  to  him.  Goodness,  I 
hope  he  didn't  peep  in  here  a  minute  ago ! "  She  was 
in  a  great  state  of  trepidation. 

For  that  matter,  so  was  Eric.  He  glanced  toward 
the  door  with  considerable  anxiety. 

"  Perhaps  —  perhaps  it's  best  to  do  as  you  say,"  he 
admitted  in  some  haste.  "  Not  that  Fm  afraid,  of 
course,  but  —  well,  it  might  spoil  everything  right 
at  the  beginning.  Your  father  just  couldn't  under 
stand." 

She  clasped  his  arm  in  her  eagerness.  "  It  will  be  so 
lovely  to  have  this  beautiful  secret  all  to  ourselves,"  she 
cried,  in  guarded  tones. 

"  But  we  are  —  engaged,  aren't  we  ?  Say  we  are, 
Joan,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  half -whispered. 

"  And  you'll  marry  me  some  day  ?     Swear  it !  " 

"  Oh,  Eric,  it  —  it  seems  so  unusual." 

"You  will?" 

"I  —  I  suppose  so." 

He  was  not  satisfied.  Men  never  are.  His  brow 
clouded  with  the  darkness  of  jealousy. 

"  And  you  won't  have  a  thing  to  do  —  ever  —  with 
any  other  fellow?  Promise,  Joan." 

"  Of  course  I  won't,"  she  cried,  and  he  was  content. 

"  Aunt  Rena's  got  her  heart  set  on  you  for  Chet- 
wynd,"  he  said,  suddenly  conscious  of  another  agreeable 
triumph  over  his  aunt. 

"  I  hate  him."     After  a  moment  she  went  on,  her 


WHEN  FRIENDSHIP  CEASES  151 

brow  clouded  with  annoyance.  "  She  says  Chetwynd 
wants  me  to  join  their  excursion  down  the  St.  Lawrence 
next  week.  She's  giving  it  for  him  and  there  will  be 
five  or  six  of  us." 

"  It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,"  he  said  stolidly. 

She  flushed  painfully.  "  Mrs.  Blagden  didn't  —  that 
is,  you  and  Mary  were  not  mentioned." 

"  We  wouldn't  go,  anyway,"  he  cried  hotly. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  she  murmured  plaintively.  "  The 
trip  is  a  lovely  one." 

**  Are  you  going?  " 

"  Father  says  it  would  be  nice  if  I  —  but  I  won't  go 
if  you  don't  want  me  to." 

He  was  fair  and  generous.  "  You  must  go,  Joan. 
I  won't  mind.  I'm  —  Hello !  There's  Judge  Bright 
in  the  hall." 

When  Judge  Bright  entered  the  study  a  minute  later, 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps  having  warned  them  in  good 
time,  he  found  Eric  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  table  at 
some  distance  from  Joan.  If  he  observed  the  sup 
pressed  excitement  in  their  manner,  he  gave  it  no 
thought,  while  they,  on  the  other  hand,  were  miserably 
certain  that  their  heart-throbs  betrayed  them. 

The  Justice's  grave,  dignified  face  wore  an  expres 
sion  of  profound  thought,  which  lightened  materially  as 
the  girl  called  out  to  him  to  come  over  and  sit  in  the 
window  with  her  while  Eric  tried  out  the  new  camera  on 
them. 

"  Snap  us  in  this  posture,  Eric,"  he  said  genially,  sit 
ting  down  beside  her  and  drawing  the  dark  head  to  his 
shoulder. 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling.  Eric  nervously  began 
fumbling  with  the  camera.  His  fingers  were  all  thumbs. 
She  laughed  and  he  made  more  of  a  mess  than  ever. 


152  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  The  light's  bad,"  he  floundered  helplessly.  "  Can't 
we  go  out  in  the  yard  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  spare  the  time,"  announced  the 
Judge.  His  brow  clouded.  "  And  I  shall  have  to  ask 
you  two  to  let  me  have  the  study  to  myself  for  awhile. 
I've  an  important  matter  to  —  er  —  to  think  over.  I'd 
spoil  the  picture,  anyway."  He  arose,  patting  the  re 
straining  hand  as  he  did  so.  "  By  the  way,  Eric,  is 
Chetwynd  at  the  bank  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  repressing  a  start. 

"  Joan,  before  you  go  out,  will  you  telephone  and  ask 
him  if  he  would  mind  coming  up  this  evening  after  din 
ner, —  if  he  isn't  otherwise  engaged?" 

Her  face  fell.  "  I'd  —  I'd  rather  not  telephone  to 
Chetwynd,  Father." 

Her  father  smiled.  "  Just  tell  him  that  I  want  to  see 
him  for  a  few  minutes.  Put  it  that  way,  my  dear." 

She  went  to  the  telephone  in  the  hall,  rebellious  but 
relieved.  The  Judge  turned  to  Eric,  who  stood  hard  by, 
undecided  what  to  do  next. 

"  I've  known  Adam  Carr  since  he  was  a  little  boy, 
Eric.  I  saved  him  from  drowning  wheri  we  were  lads  to 
gether.  You  may  be  sure  he  would  accept  no  thanks 
from  me  for  what  he  did  last  week  for  Joan  —  and  you. 
He  is  extremely  fond  of  you,  because  you  are  good  to 
his  old  father.  And  let  me  tell  you  something,  my  boy : 
he  is  a  friend  worth  having." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  sir." 

"  Chetwynd  will  be  here  at  half -past  seven,  Father," 
said  Joan  from  the  doorway,  a  moment  later. 


TRAGEDY 

As  Eric  walked  springily  down  Blagden  Avenue  an  hour 
later,  his  heart  thumping  with  happiness,  he  came  face 
to  face  with  Mr.  Presbrey.  In  a  twinkling  his  spirits 
felL  The  sight  of  the  excellent  gentleman  brought 
him  back  to  earth.  He  had  been  in  heaven  for  two 
hours  or  more.  Strange,  that  a  minister  of  the  gospel 
should  snatch  one  out  of  heaven  and  restore  him  to  the 
sinful  earth  so  rudely,  but  that  is  precisely  what  hap 
pened.  Seeing  Mr.  Presbrey  just  then  was  like  taking 
a  sudden,  unexpected  plunge  into  icy  water.  Beautiful, 
warm  vistas  of  delight  faded  away,  and  in  their  place 
stretched  all  the  ugly,  unkind  scene  he  had  managed  to 
forget  in  his  new  environment.  Once  more  came  into 
active  reality  the  bitter,  depressing  chill  he  had  shaken 
off  for  the  moment.  Mr.  Presbrey's  friendly,  spiritual 
smile  at  once  suggested  a  hundred  bitter  wrongs  and 
heart-aches;  disillusioning  realities,  cruel  charges  and 
spiteful  innuendoes.  It  revived  all  the  mental  anguish  of 
the  past  fortnight,  to  say  nothing  of  the  indignities 
that  had  been  spread  out  over  the  whole  of  his  life  with 
the  Blagdens.  The  world  turned  black  and  harsh  for 
him  in  the  flash  of  an  eye.  Across  his  horizon  lay  the 
shadows  of  Chetwynd  and  his  mother,  with  the  less 
sinister  shape  of  his  uncle  behind  them. 

Mr.  Presbrey  accosted  him,  halting  as  the  young  man 
came  up.  He  planted  the  ferule  of  his  gold-headed 
ebony  cane  firmly  in  a  crack  in  the  brick  sidewalk,  and 
said: 

153 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Ah,  you  will  be  late  for  luncheon,  my  dear  friend." 
He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "  It's  half  after  one." 

It  occurred  to  Eric,  and  not  for  the  first  time,  that 
Mr.  Presbrey  seldom  missed  the  opportunity  to  censure 
him,  even  though  he  meant  to  be  kindly  and  consid 
erate. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Presbrey,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  am  afraid 
so.  I  must  be  hurrying  along." 

"  You  shouldn't  keep  your  aunt  waiting,"  said  Mr. 
Presbrey  genially,  lifting  his  cane  high  enough  to  poke 
it  at  the  youth  in  playful  reproof. 

(Chetwynd,  who  now  and  then  uttered  something 
pointedly  original,  once  remarked  that  Mr.  Presbrey 
carried  a  cane  so  that  occasionally  he  could  be  in  touch 
with  the  earth.) 

Eric  hurried  on.  He  looked  back  once,  with  a  frown 
on  his  face,  taking  in  Mr.  Presbrey's  stiff  back  as  that 
gentleman  moved  off  up  the  street.  Mr.  Presbrey  looked 
back  in  the  same  instant. 

"  He's  always  looking  to  see  if  I'm  in  the  narrow 
path,"  thought  Eric,  rancour  in  his  soul. 

He  and  Mary  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  sultry 
afternoon  on  Stone  Wall,  where  she  dawdled  over  a 
novel  while  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  one  or 
two  studies  that  had  been  haunting  him  since  the  spring 
examinations.  But  his  thoughts  were  of  other  things, 
both  harsh  and  pleasant.  Thoughts,  delicious  thoughts 
of  Joan  were  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Then,  there  was 
the  cruel  disappointment  in  connexion  with  the  prize, 
of  which  Mary  was  in  ignorance.  She  had  not  seen  his 
drawing.  He  had  not  told  her  of  Chetwynd's  foul 
trick.  He  could  not,  in  justice  to  himself,  relate  the 
story  of  his  amazing  interview  with  their  uncle,  nor 
would  his  tender  heart  allow  him  to  repeat  the  unkind 


TRAGEDY  155 

news  he  had  obtained  through  Joan.  He  secretly  was 
debating  in  his  mind  the  wisdom  of  revealing  Joan's 
rosy  plans  for  the  coming  school-year.  Persistent  re 
minders  of  Adam  Carr's  strange  words  and  his  even 
more  mysterious  attitude  also  forced  their  way  through 
the  labyrinth  of  thoughts  that  confused  and  distressed 
him. 

At  last,  in  a  burst  of  confidence  —  perhaps  it  was  pity 
he  felt  for  the  sweet-faced  girl  who  sat  beyond  him  all 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he  watched  her  with  trou 
bled  eyes, —  he  told  her  of  Joan's  plan,  but  emphatically 
enjoined  silence  on  her  part  for  the  time  being.  Mary 
was  in  ecstasies.  She  forgot  her  book  and  her  troubles, 
and  he  laid  aside  his  own  affairs  while  they  discussed 
hopes,  possibilities  and  obstacles. 

Toward  evening  they  strolled  homeward,  both 
wrapped  in  the  cloak  of  optimism  that  lies  only  on  the 
shoulders  of  youth.  Arriving  at  the  upper  gate  to  the 
Seaman's  Home  on  Lord's  Point,  they  paused  to  shed 
some  of  their  effulgent  warmth  on  ancient  Mr.  Carr, 
whose  sunset  was  clouded. 

The  old  man  was  feeding  the  squirrels;  a  dozen  of 
them  scampered  about  his  feet,  or  clambered  over  his 
person  in  frank  security.  A  certain  listlessness  marked 
the  old  man's  movements.  The  sprightliness  was  gone 
from  the  wrinkled,  nut-brown  face.  He  delivered  the 
peanuts  in  a  dreary,  disinterested  way,  and  forgot  his 
erstwhile  cheerful  cluck. 

"Hello,"  called  out  Eric  from  the  gate.  The  old 
man  looked  up.  His  face  lighted  in  an  instant. 

"  Come  in,"  he  called  out  to  them.  "  Where  have 
you  two  been  a-keepin'  yourselves  for  the  last  week  ?  "  he 
demanded  irascibly,  as  they  approached.  He  scattered 
the  nuts  broadcast  and  arose  to  welcome  his  visitors. 


156  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

The  cause  of  his  depression  was  revealed:  he  had  missed 
these  cheery  young  sprites,  and  he  had  been  lonely. 

"  Did  you  miss  us,  Uncle  Jabe  ?  "  asked  Mary  peni 
tently. 

"  You're  a  pair  of  denied  ingrates,"  announced  Jabez 
sourly,  belying  the  joy  that  shone  in  his  sharp  little 
eyes.  "  I  might  'a'  died  right  here  a  dozen  times  over 
and  you  wouldn't  'a'  knowed  anything  about  it  —  er 
cared." 

"  But  you  didn't  die,"  said  Eric  calmly.  "  Say,  isn't 
that  a  new  squirrel?  I've  never  seen  him  before,"  point 
ing  to  a  shy,  alert  little  fellow  on  the  edge  of  the  group. 

"  Third  time  he's  been  around,"  said  Jabez,  im 
mensely  gratified.  *'  I  was  wondering  if  you'd  notice 
him." 

"  Where's  Mr.  Adam  ?  "  asked  Eric  abruptly. 

"  Ain't  you  seen  him  ?  He  went  out  along  Stone 
Wall  a  couple  of  hours  ago,  lookin'  for  you,  Eric.  He 
must  'a'  missed  you." 

"  We  were  near  Bud's  Rock  all  afternoon.  What  did 
he  want  ?  "  There  was  a  trace  of  excitement  in  Eric's 
voice. 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  me  how  f  er  it  is  to  Jupiter," 
replied  Jabez  serenely.  "  He's  the  derndest  feller  I  ever 
see  f  er  keeping  his  business  to  hisself .  Hello !  Yender 
he  comes  now.  I  reckon  he's  been  huntin'  fer  you  out 
there  all  afternoon." 

"  That's  strange,"  said  Eric.  "  He's  usually  pretty 
good  at  finding  what  he  looks  for." 

Adam  Carr  slowly  approached  from  the  direction  of 
Stone  Wall.  A  vague,  indefinable  feeling  of  unrest 
came  over  Eric,  as  of  one  who  is  being  spied  upon. 
Something  seemed  to  tell  him  that  Adam  Carr  had  been 
watching  him  all  the  time  they  were  out  on  Stone  Wall. 


TRAGEDY  157 

"  Well,  he's  found  you,  ain't  he?  "  observed  Jabez,  in 
his  driest  way.  Give  Adam  time  and  he  would  find 
what  he  looked  for,  that  was  Jabez's  inward  conten 
tion. 

"  Must  you  be  going  ?  "  asked  Adam,  coming  up  to 
them  and  drawing  his  pipe  and  pouch  from  the  pocket 
of  his  blue  serge  coat.  The  visitors  had  made  no  move 
to  depart,  although,  strangely  enough,  both  were  think 
ing  of  it  at  the  very  moment  he  put  the  question. 

"  Goodness !  "  murmured  Mary  in  wonder. 

The  grim  face  of  the  newcomer  relaxed  into  a  smile 
of  self-praise.  He  took  note  of  the  curious  expression 
in  Eric's  eyes. 

"  No,  I'm  not  a  mind-reader,"  he  said,  answering  the 
unspoken  question,  but  offering  no  reason  for  his  de 
duction,  which,  after  all,  was  not  so  wonderful  when 
you  stop  to  consider  that  the  Blagden  dinner  hour  was 
close  at  hand. 

"  It's  our  dinner-time,"  explained  Eric,  arising. 
"  Say,  Mr.  Adam,  you've  got  me  guessing  about  certain 
things." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  you  know." 

"  I  was  getting  some  high-class  legal  advice,"  said 
Adam,  again  answering  an  unspoken  question.  "  By 
the  way,  did  you  happen  to  see  your  cousin  out  along 
Stone  Wall  an  hour  or  so  ago?  " 

"  No,"  cried  the  Midthornes. 

Adam  leaned  back  in  the  rustic  bench  and  blew  smoke 
into  the  air.  "  I  just  wondered,  that's  all,"  he  ob 
served. 

"  Was  he  out  there?  "  demanded  Eric. 

"  He  asked  me  to  meet  him  out  there  at  four-thirty. 
Guess  he  forgot  about  it,"  said  the  other,  more  com- 


158  MAKY  MIDTHORNE 

placently  than  you  would  expect  of  a  man.  who  had 
taken  a  long  walk  to  no  purpose. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  knew  that  Chetwynd  had 
gone  to  the  rocks  to  keep  the  appointment,  but  had 
slipped  away  on  discovering  that  his  cousins  were  there 
before  him.  Whatever  his  business  with  Adam  Carr 
may  have  been,  he  did  not  choose  to  have  them  as  possi 
ble  witnesses  to  the  transaction. 

"  What  did  he  want  to  see  you  for?  "  asked  Eric 
eagerly. 

"  He  didn't  say,"  replied  Adam  Carr  soberly. 

"  What  is  the  mystery  ?  "  begged  Eric. 

"  There's  no  mystery  about  it,"  said  the  other  truth 
fully.  It  haH  ceased  to  be  a  mystery  so  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  "  You'd  better  skip  along  now,  or  your 
aunt  will  jack  you  up  for  being  late  to  dinner."  There 
was  finality  in  the  remark,  and  Eric  knew  him  too  well 
to  pursue  the  subject.  A  few  minutes  later,  he  and 
Mary  took  their  departure,  old  Jabez  accompanying 
them  to  the  gate. 

"  Adam's  a  mighty  curious  feller,"  the  old  man  ex 
plained  apologetically. 

They  glanced  over  their  shoulders  at  the  motionless 
man  on  the  bench.  He  had  stopped  smoking  and  was 
resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  staring  intently  at  the 
ground,  apparently  oblivious  to  all  that  was  going  on 
around  him. 

At  the  dinner  table  that  evening,  Chetwynd  was  un 
usually  sullen  and  preoccupied.  He  chafed  at  delays 
and  in  two  or  three  instances  spoke  sharply  to  the  wait 
ress  when  she  seemed  to  be  longer  than  necessary  in 
transit  from  pantry  to  dining-room.  For  a  wonder, 
his  father  did  not  rebuke  him  for  this  display  of  irrita 
tion,  but  was  painfully  silent  himself.  Eric,  covertly; 


TRAGEDY  159 

watching  his  cousin,  was  struck  by  the  worn,  peevish 
look  in  his  face,  and  the  hard  line  between  his  brows.  He 
did  not  fail  to  observe  that  Chetwynd  deliberately 
avoided  looking  at  him. 

From  time  to  time,  he  shot  a  singularly  penetrating 
glance  at  Mary,  whose  gaze  seldom  left  the  plate  before 
her.  Eric  felt  his  blood  boil.  There  was  a  menace  in 
every  glance  that  Chetwynd  bestowed  upon  the  girl. 

Immediately  after  the  meal  came  to  an  end,  young 
Blagden  took  up  his  hat,  and  with  a  curt  word  or  two  to 
his  mother,  left  the  house.  Eric  knew  whither  he  was 
bound. 

He  heard  his  cousin  come  in  at  nine  o'clock  or  a  little 
after,  and  go  quietly  to  his  room,  without  stopping  in 
the  library  where  his  parents  were  reading.  Later  on, 
Mrs.  Blagden  passed  down  the  hall  and  tapped  on  her 
son's  door. 

"  Have  you  another  headache  to-night,  dear  ?  "  he 
heard  her  ask,  after  she  had  tried  the  knob  of  the  locked 
door.  He  could  not  catch  Chetwynd's  reply,  but  her 
next  words  were  significant.  "  Well,  don't  snap  my 
head  off,  please." 

Eric  lay  awake  for  hours,  speculating  on  what  had 
transpired  at  Judge  Bright's  house.  The  early  return 
home  of  Chetwynd  was  satisfying  in  one  sense,  but  dis 
turbing  in  another.  The  visit  plainly  was  not  of  a  so 
cial  nature,  nor  friendly,  it  might  be  reasonable  to  sur 
mise.  He  could  not  have  been  at  Judge  Bright's  for 
more  than  half  an  hour,  a  circumstance  which  made  it 
plain  that  there  was  no  pleasure  in  the  visit. 

The  conviction  grew  in  Eric's  feverish  mind  that  the 
Judge's  summons  to  Chetwynd  was  the  result  of  the  in 
terview  with  Adam  Carr. 

In  that  case,  there  was  something  sinister  behind  it. 


160  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Eric  was  disturbed  by  the  dread  that,  whatever  it  was, 
he,  and  perhaps  Mary,  were  to  be  dragged  into  it. 
Enough  had  been  said  by  Joan  to  convince  him  that 
they  were  under  discussion.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
Judge  Bright  had  called  on  Adam  Carr  to  investigate 
the  stories  told  by  his  aunt  and  Mrs.  Presbrey?  Was 
the  half -hour's  interview  with  Chetwynd  a  part  of  the 
effort  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  these  ugly  stories?  The 
occurrences  of  the  last  few  days  had  thrown  young  Mid- 
thorne  into  a  wretched  state  of  uncertainty  and  doubt. 
As  he  lay  there  that  night,  wide-eyed  and  troubled,  he 
could  see  naught  but  foreboding  shadows  ahead  of  him. 
It  was  impossible  to  go  to  sleep  with  that  sinister  chill 
creeping  through  his  veins,  a  chill  that  turned  him  sick 
with  the  nausea  of  dread.  Near  dawn  he  dropped  off 
into  a  fitful  doze,  but  was  aroused  at  seven  by  his  uncle, 
who  never  missed  calling  the  entire  household  at  that 
hour,  breakfast  being  set  for  seven-thirty. 

After  breakfast,  in  a  state  of  wretched  uncertainty, 
he  made  his  way,  but  not  without  some  diffidence,  to 
Joan's  home,  driven  by  the  desire  to  find  out  how  he 
stood  with  her  since  the  mysterious  visit  of  his  cousin. 
There  was  something  disquieting  in  the  fact  that  Chet 
wynd  did  not  appear  for  breakfast,  pleading  a  head 
ache.  Mrs.  Blagden  had  her  coffee  and  toast  in  her 
son's  room,  which  left  the  two  Midthornes  to  breakfast 
alone  with  their  uncle.  Not  more  than  a  dozen  words 
were  uttered  in  conversation  during  the  meal.  Mr. 
Blagden,  a  shade  greyer  in  the  face  than  yesterday,  it 
seemed  to  Eric,  read  the  morning  paper  while  he  drank 
his  coffee  in  sharp,  jerky  little  sips.  Mary,  in  a  covert 
glance,  made  the  discovery  toward  the  end  of  the  meal 
that  her  uncle  was  staring  blankly  at  the  print  before 
him,  without  reading  a  word.  She  watched  him  for  a 


TRAGEDY  161 

minute  or  more;  his  eyes  did  not  move.  It  was  a  cir 
cumstance  worth  mentioning  to  Eric,  but  she  quite  for 
got  it  when  her  brother  announced  that  he  was  going 
over  to  Joan's. 

Moreover,  just  as  they  were  leaving  the  table,  Martha 
came  in  to  say  that  Judge  Bright  was  waiting  to  speak 
with  Mr.  Blagden  at  the  telephone.  Their  uncle  closed 
the  library  door  when  he  went  into  that  room  to  answer 
the  call. 

Eric's  reception  by  his  shy,  unpractised  sweetheart 
swept  away  all  doubts  and  misgivings,  and  restored  him 
in  large  measure  to  the  state  of  bliss  he  had  developed 
the  day  before.  His  relief  was  so  great  that  he  quite 
forgot  his  fears. 

Still,  when  he  left  her  after  an  hour  in  the  garden,  he 
was  to  experience  a  decidedly  unpleasant  shock  on  finding 
Judge  Bright  and  Adam  Carr  seated  together  on  the 
front  porch.  As  he  passed  them,  they  greeted  him 
cheerily,  but  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  their  gaze 
followed  him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  So  vivid  was 
this  impression  that  in  order  to  escape  the  scrutiny  he 
turned  into  a  side  street  when  but  a  block  from  the 
house. 

He  carried  a  message  from  Joan  to  Mary.  His  sister 
was  to  go  out  for  a  long  drive  with  Joan  in  the  Brights' 
phaeton  that  afternoon,  when  the  two  of  them  were  to 
talk  over  the  Sinnox  school  project.  There  was  addi 
tional  consolation  for  him  in  Joan's  news  that  her  father 
had  called  up  Mr.  Blagden  during  the  morning  to  in 
quire  when  he  could  see  him  on  a  matter  of  importance. 
She  was  sure  that  it  had  to  do  with  the  school  project, 
for  he  had  promised  her  at  breakfast  that  he  would  take 
it  up  with  Mr.  Blagden  at  the  first  opportunity.  Her 
father  was  to  call  at  the  bank  on  the  following  day,  Mr. 


162<  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Blagden  setting  the  time.  So,  she  was  sure^  it  would 
be  all  right. 

She  did  not  see  Chetwynd  when  he  called  the  evening 
before. 

That  afternoon  Eric,  more  or  less  at  peace  with  him 
self,  if  not  with  the  world,  took  his  books  and  sought  the 
quiet  solitude  of  Bud's  Rock,  a  shady,  obscure  spot 
overlooking  Stone  Wall,  and  not  far  removed  from  the 
unfrequented  outer  road  which  skirted  the  coast.  The 
main-travelled  highway  was  farther  inland  by  a  mile  or 
more.  But  few  travellers  used  the  narrow,  abandoned 
road  along  the  cliff. 

Bud's  Rock  itself  was  in  the  heart  of  a  miniature 
wilderness.  It  lay  black  and  dank,  moss-covered  and 
dripping,  at  the  edge  of  the  woodland,  almost  com 
pletely  hidden  by  the  thick  underbrush  and  trees  that 
surrounded  it.  Here  it  was  always  cool  and  shady.  At 
the  base  of  the  huge  boulder  there  was  a  tiny  plaza  of 
vividly  green  grass,  smooth  and  soft,  and  sweet  with  the 
smell  of  earth.  Through  the  trees  ahead,  one  had  a 
clear  view  of  the  sea  beyond  the  rugged,  broken  line  of 
the  cliffs,  on  which  no  vegetation  appeared.  A  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  away,  the  surf  drummed  noisily  against  the 
obstinate  wall  of  rock,  while  down  upon  the  bleak  inter 
vening  space  the  sun  sent  his  rays  with  such  scorching 
intensity  that  if  one  crossed  the  rocks  at  midday  it  was 
at  the  risk  of  blistering  the  soles  of  his  shoe-clad  feet. 

Years  before,  Eric  had  come  upon  this  tiny  plaza, 
and  it  always  had  been  a  favourite  idling  place  for  him. 
He  went  there  to  read,  or  to  dream,  or  to  think.  Times 
there  were  when  his  thoughts  and  dreams  were  unpleas 
ant  ones,  full  of  bitterness  and  resentment  toward  those 
who  badgered  him,  but  more  often  than  not  he  found 
solace  at  the  foot  of  Bud's  Rock.  No  one  disturbed  him 


TRAGEDY  163 

in  this  lonely  nook.  It  was  quite  as  if  it  were  a  domain 
of  his  own. 

A  little  to  the  left  of  the  rock,  a  deep,  thin  ravine 
slashed  through  the  rocks  and  descended  by  tortuous 
wriggles  to  the  sea  itself.  He  had  gone  down  there  at 
low  tide,  and  it  was  like  going  into  a  tomb.  At  high 
tide  it  would  have  been  a  tomb  for  anyone  who  ven 
tured. 

On  this  particular  afternoon,  Eric  was  strangely  op 
pressed  by  the  dreary  waste  of  rock  and  water  before 
him.  He  held  faithfully  to  the  work  in  hand,  but  there 
were  moments  when  he  found  himself  contemplating  the 
unattractive  vista  with  something  like  dread  in  his  heart. 
Never  before  had  he  felt  this  way  in  looking  at  the  fa 
miliar,  though  unlovely  tract.  Somehow,  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  strange  dread  in  being  alone  there.  More 
than  once  he  wished  that  Mary  were  there  to  keep  him 
company.  Mary,  or  —  blissful  alternative  —  another 
whom  he  knew. 

He  had  the  sensation,  now  and  again,  that  the  sea 
was  making  ready  to  leap  over  the  lofty  wall,  to  rush  at 
him  while  he  sat  there  helpless  with  his  back  against  the 
face  of  Bud's  Rock.  Then  there  was  the  grewsome 
feeling  that  up  through  the  moaning  ravine,  a  slimy 
monster  from  the  deep  was  crawling  slowly  but  surely, 
bent  on  crunching  him  in  its  mighty  jaws.  More  than 
once,  hearing  a  rustling  sound  near  by,  he  had  cast  a 
quick  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  ominous  slit  in  the 
earth,; — never  ominous  till  now,  however. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  at  five  o'clock.  With  a  start 
of  relief,  he  realised  it  was  time  to  go  home.  Mary 
would  have  returned  from  her  drive  with  Joan.  She 
would  have  much  to  tell  him.  He  gathered  up  his  notes 
and  books,  and  rose  to  stretch  himself. 


164  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

As  he  came  to  his  feet,  he  saw  Chetwynd  Blagden 
standing  on  the  rickety  bridge  that  spanned  the  ravine, 
fifty  yards  or  more  below  Bud's  Rock.  His  back  was 
toward  Eric,  and  he  appeared  to  be  watching  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  Todville.  His  tall,  herculean  frame 
leaned  against  the  rail  of  the  bridge,  and  his  arms  were 
folded  across  his  chest. 

In  considerable  wonder  and  no  little  dismay,  Eric 
watched  him  in  silence,  not  with  the  intention  of  spying 
upon  him,  but  because  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
venture  forth  and  accost  him  in  this  lonely  spot.  The 
presentiment  of  evil  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
This,  then,  was  the  physical  proof  of  impending  danger : 
for  something  told  him  that  Chetwynd  personified  the 
ominous  thing  that  the  ravine  was  to  produce,  after  all. 

How  long  had  his  cousin  been  standing  on  the  bridge  ? 
Where  had  he  come  from,  and  for  whom  was  he  in  wait 
ing?  Adam  Carr!  He  was  to  meet  Adam  there,  hav 
ing  failed  him  the  day  before.  That  was  it.  But,  that 
being  the  case,  why  had  he  failed  to  see  Eric,  as  on  the 
previous  occasion?  His  eyes  had  been  sharp  enough 
yesterday;  why  were  they  dull  to-day? 

Eric  looked  about  for  a  way  to  leave  his  nook  without 
disturbing  the  watcher  below.  Unfortunately,  there 
was  no  means  of  reaching  the  road  except  by  way  of  the 
path  leading  almost  to  the  bridge  itself.  He  realised 
that,  in  all  fairness  and  honour,  he  could  not  stay  where 
he  was,  a  witness  to  the  palpably  clandestine  meeting  of 
the  two  men.  That  was  an  act  he  could  not  forgive  in 
anyone  else,  so  why  should  he  be  guilty  of  it  himself? 
There  was  but  one  thing  left  for  him  to  do :  walk  boldly 
down  the  path,  speak  to  his  cousin,  and  continue  his 
peaceable  way  homeward,  before  any  serious  friction 
could  result. 


TRAGEDY  165 

He  knew  that  Chetwynd  was  ready  and  eager  for  the 
chance  to  quarrel.  There  had  been  a  plenty  of  evi 
dence  of  the  fact  during  the  past  few  days.  His  cousin 
had  glowered  at  him  with  positive  hatred  in  his  eyes 
ever  since  his  return  from  New  York.  There  was  a 
score  to  be  settled,  and  Eric  knew  it.  It  would  not  be 
settled  with  boxing-gloves,  but  with  bare  fists.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  Chetwynd,  but  he  was  especially  reluctant 
to  invite  a  physical  clash  at  this  time.  His  own  blood 
was  hot  with  long  pent-up  rage,  and  he  knew  that  the 
slightest  spark  vwould  set  it  aflame.  The  result  might 
prove  disastrous  in  more  ways  than  one.  This  was  the 
time  for  reason,  for  temporising,  although  every  sinew 
in  his  body  ached  to  be  at  this  cheat  and  bully. 

Just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting  down  the  slope, 
an  action  on  Chetwynd's  part  stayed  him  for  a  moment, 
curiosity  being  responsible  for  his  momentary  hesita 
tion. 

Young  Blagden  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  read  it 
with  unmistakable  eagerness,  and  then,  to  the  watcher's 
amazement,  pressed  the  tinted  sheet  to  his  lips.  There 
was  apparent  reluctance  in  the  young  bully's  next  act. 
He  looked  at  the  missive  for  some  moments,  as  if  in 
doubt,  and  then,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  drew  a  match 
from  his  pocket,  struck  it  on  the  rail,  and  set  fire  to  the 
corner  of  the  tender  epistle,  which  he  held  in  his  fingers 
until  it  was  quite  consumed,  before  dropping  it  into  the 
ravine. 

In  the  next  instant,  as  if  impelled  by  some  telepathic 
force,  he  whirled  and  looked  up  the  slope  to  where  Eric 
was  standing.  For  a  full  minute,  the  two  young  men 
remained  motionless,  staring  at  each  other.  Then  Eric 
began  slowly  to  descend. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  shrubbery  at  the  base  of  the 


166  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

rock,  he  saw  Chetwynd  advancing  upon  him,  his  face 
white  with  passion,  his  eyes  stark  with  alarm  and  appre 
hension. 

"  You  infernal  sneak ! "  he  hissed  through  his  rigid 
lips.  "  So  you've  been  spying  on  me,  have  you  ?  I'll 
fix  you  for  that !  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  back  his  arm,  and  the  next  in 
stant  a  jagged  rock  came  whizzing  through  the  air, 
aimed  with  deadly  interest  at  Eric's  head.  A  dozen 
paces  separated  the  young  men.  Eric  had  expected 
some  such  treachery  as  this,  and  was  more  or  less  pre 
pared  for  it.  He  leaped  nimbly  to  one  side,  and  the  mis 
sile  grazed  his  ear.  In  the  same  moment  he  stooped 
and  swept  up  a  stone  at  his  feet.  Chetwynd,  slower 
than  his  adversary,  was  reaching  down  for  another. 

"  Drop  it !  "  yelled  Eric.  "  Drop  it,  I  say !  I'll  let 
you  have  this  right  in  the  face,  if  you  pick  up  that 
rock.  You  know  I  can  do  it,  so  look  out ! " 

Chetwynd  had  cause  to  remember  Eric's  ability  to 
throw  straight.  He  dropped  the  stone  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  arm,  crouching  back  against  the  rail- 
post. 

"  Here !  "  he  shouted  hoarsely.  "  Look  out  what 
.you're  doing!  Don't  you  throw  that  rock  at  me,  you 
murdering  cur.  Do  you  want  to  kill  me?  " 

Eric's  pale  face  relaxed  into  a  sardonic  grin. 

"  You're  a  fine  one  to  talk,  you  are,"  he  cried,  his 
1  voice  trembling  with  excitement.  "  What  did  you  do 
but  try  to  kill  me  just  now?  I've  a  notion  to  let  you 
have  this,  just  to  — " 

"  Don't ! "  yelled  Chetwynd,  in  fresh  alarm. 

"  Well,  you  stay  where  you  are,  then,  you  infernal 
brute.  I  don't  want  to  have  any  trouble  with  you. 
I'm  going  home.  I  wasn't  spying  on  you,  and  you 


TRAGEDY  1(57 

know  it.  Don't  move  from  where  you  are,  Chetty,  or, 
by  thunder,  I'll  knock  your  head  off." 

"  You  can  just  bet  you're  not  looking  for  trouble 
•with  me.  If  you  didn't  have  that  rock  in  your  hand  I'd 
come  over  there  and  kick  you  clear  over  Bud's  Rock. 
You  are  a  sneak  and  a  spy  and  a  lying  one  at  that. 
And  I'll  just  get  you  for  it  some  day." 

He  was  trembling  with  rage.  If  Eric  had  not  held 
the  upper  hand  over  him  at  that  moment,  murder  would 
have  been  done  on  the  lonely  spot. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,  Chet,"  said  Midthorne 
resolutely.  "  You  can't  drag  me  into  a  fight,  much  as 
I'd  like  to  have  it  out  with  you.  I've  got  good  reason 
for  beating  your  brains  out,  and  you  know  it.  You  let 
me  alone  and  I'll  do  the  same  by  you.  If  there  is  no 
other  way,  I'll  take  Mary  and  go  away  from  Corinth. 
I  won't  stand  anything  more  from  you.  We'll  let 
things  go  as  they  are,  if  you  are  willing,  but  you've  just 
got  to  let  me  alone.  I've  not  told  Uncle  Horace  what 
you  did  to  her,  but  I  did  tell  him  you  stole  my  drawing 
the  — " 

"  It's  a  lie !  "  cried  Chetwynd.  "  I  made  that  draw 
ing.  You  dirty  sneak,  you  tried  to  work  that  guff  off  on 
father.  But  I  proved  to  him  yesterday  that  it  was  my 
drawing  that  took  the  prize.  He  knows  it  now.  He 
believes  you  had  a  purpose  in  lying  — " 

"  You  proved  it !  "  cried  Eric,  aghast.  "  How  could 
you  prove  it  ?  " 

"  I  proved  it  by  mother,  if  that  will  satisfy  you.  She 
saw  me  working  on  it  for  days,"  snarled  the  other, 
showing  his  teeth. 

Eric  glared.  "  Did  Aunt  Rena  say  that  ? "  he 
gasped. 

"  Yes.     I  went  to  her  about  it,  against  father's  wish. 


168  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

She  told  father  all  about  you, —  what  a  miserable  liar 
and  sneak  you  are,  and  — " 

"  She  lied !  "  cried  Eric  fiercely. 

"  Here !  Don't  you  go  saying  my  mother  is  a  liar. 
I'll  — I'll— " 

"  You're  both  liars.  No !  Wait  a  minute.  I  don't 
believe  Aunt  Rena  told  your  father  that.  She's  as  mean 
as  dirt  to  me,  but  I  don't  think  she'd  do  that.  I'm 
going  to  ask  Uncle  Horace." 

Chetwynd's  blood-shot  eyes  shifted.  "  You'd  better 
keep  your  mouth  shut,"  he  growled.  "  Father's  prom 
ised  he'd  overlook  it  if  nothing  more  was  said  about  it." 

"  Uncle  Horace  knows  you're  a  thief,"  cried  his 
cousin,  "  and  I  know  it,  and  I've  got  to  help  shield  you, 
too.  We've  all  got  to  protect  the  blessed  Blagden 
name.  What  a  joke  it  is!" 

Chetwynd's  face  was  of  a  greenish  white.  He  looted 
over  his  shoulder  as  if  in  mortal  fear  that  these  words 
had  been  overheard.  "  You  keep  your  jaw  closed,"  he 
hissed. 

"  What's  Adam  Carr  been  watching  you  — "  began 
Eric,  but  the  look  of  absolute  terror  in  his  cousin's  face 
stopped  him. 

"  Adam  Carr!  "  he  gasped,  his  jaw  sagging.  "  Has 
he  been  — "  He  pulled  himself  together  with  a  mighty 
effort,  gulped  a  couple  of  times,  and  then  tried  to  grin 
derisively.  "  Ah,  come  off !  You  can't  pull  that  off 
with  me.  Adam  Carr's  on  a  bank  job  for  father." 

"  What  did  Judge  Bright  want  to  see  you  for  last 
night?" 

"  Say,  I'm  not  here  to  answer  questions  for  you," 
roared  Chetwynd.  "  You're  nothing  but  a  pauper,  living 
off  of  us,  anyhow.  You  and  Mary,  both  of  you. 
You're  the  scum  of  the  earth.  If  you  didn't  have 


TRAGEDY  169 

father  back  of  you,  nobody  with  any  decency  in  'em 
would  look  at  you.  You  know  what  yvwr  father  was 
and  what  your  mother  was,  so  why  — " 

"  Take  care,  Chet !  Don't  say  anything  more," 
warned  Eric,  white  to  the  lips. 

"  And  you'll  both  come  to  the  same  end,"  went  on  the 
other  ruthlessly.  "  Mary !  Ho,  ho !  She's  a  fine  one 
to  talk.  She  got  caught  with  me,  and  she  had  to  lie  out 
of  it.  She  put  it  all  on  me.  And  I  was  man  enough 
to  stand  for  it,  too." 

"You  lie!" 

Chetwynd's  eyes  gleamed  with  a  sudden  malicious  joy. 
He  gave  vent  to  a  nervous,  uncertain  laugh. 

"  I  do,  do  I?  Say,  you  saw  me  burn  a  letter  just  now, 
didn't  you?  Well,  it  was  a  note  from  Mary.  She's 
crazy  about  me.  I  can  do  what  I  please  with  her,  and  at 
any  time.  She's  no  better  than  any  of  the  rest  of  her 
sort.  If  you  think  she's  so  blamed  good  and  virtu 
ous  — " 

"  If  you  say  another  word,  I'll  kill  you,"  cried  Eric, 
quivering  all  over. 

"  You're  afraid  to  throw  it,"  sneered  Chetwynd, 
wholly  misunderstanding  the  emotions  that  shook  his 
cousin's  frame.  "  She  was  coming  here  to  meet  me  to 
day.  She  —  " 

Eric's  heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy  and  triumph. 

"  You  lie !  She  is  out  riding  with  Joan  Bright.  Oh, 
you  cowardly  dog !  You  beast !  " 

"  You  can  say  such  things  to  me  because  you've  got  a 
rock  in  your  hand.  If  — " 

Without  hesitation,  Eric  tossed  the  rock  into  the 
ditch. 

Like  a  ferocious,  suddenly-freed  tiger,  Chetwynd 
sprang  forward,  a  snarl  of  fury  on  his  lips.  They 


170  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

came  together  with  a  crash.  .  .  .  Twice  Eric  went 
down  from  savage  body  blows.  Once  he  was  kicked  in 
the  side  while  trying  to  arise.  They  fought  their  way 
out  upon  the  rickety  bridge,  the  smaller  youth  carefully 
guarding  his  face  from  the  wild,  murderous  blows  of 
the  young  giant.  At  last,  the  chance  came  to  send  in  a 
telling  blow  of  his  own. 

He  drove  his  fist  against  his  cousin's  jaw  as  he  came  in 
with  a  crouching,  bull-like  rush,  death-lust  in  his  con 
vulsed  face. 

Chetwynd  staggered  back  against  the  railing  of  the 
bridge,  clutching  at  it  to  save  himself  from  falling.  A 
look  of  foolish  surprise  came  into  his  eyes,  to  be  suc 
ceeded  a  second  later  by  one  of  fearful  dismay. 

"  O  God !  "  welled  from  young  Blagden's  lips. 

The  frail  support  creaked  and  splintered.  There  was 
a  tearing,  cracking  sound,  and  then  the  rail  gave  way. 
Chetwynd's  shriek  of  horror  was  even  less  sickening  than 
the  groan  that  fell  from  Eric's  lips  as  he  leaped  forward 
to  catch  the  tottering  figure  on  the  edge. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  stood  alone  on  the  shud- 
clering  bridge. 

Up  from  the  depths  came  a  horrid  scream,  cut  short 
by  the  crash  of  timbers  and  the  thud  of  a  heavy  body  on 
the  rocks  seventy  feet  below.  Then  came  utter  still 
ness. 

,  For  a  long  time  Eric  Midthorne  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  petrified  by  horror.  He  had  waited  an  age,  it 
seemed,  for  the  thud  of  that  whirling,  unseen  body. 
Now  he  knew  that  the  thing  which  had  been  so  vitally 
alive  a  moment  ago  was  alive  no  longer. 

He  waited  for  a  shout  from  below,  or  even  a  groan, — 
anything  that  would  bring  to  him  the  courage  to  look 
idown  at  the  thing  that  had  swayed,  and  writhed  and 


TRAGEDY  171 

clawed  the  air  but  a  moment  before.  He  could  see 
nothing  but  that, —  he  could  hear  nothing  but  the  wild 
scream* 

His  body  seemed  to  have  turned  to  ice.  He  was 
freezing.  Suddenly  his  knees  gave  way  and  he  dropped 
heavily  in  his  tracks.  Fascinated  by  horror,  he  dragged 
himself  to  the  edge, —  to  the  very  spot  where  Chetwynd 
had  last  been  seen, —  and  peered  over  the  side,  down 
through  that  dark,  sunless  rift  in  the  rocks. 

Dimly  outlined  against  the  blaclc,  moist  floor  of  the 
ravine  there  was  a  huddled,  motionless  shape  that  took 
no  definite  form,  but  lay  like  a  heap  of  discarded  gar 
ments  waiting  for  the  visit  of  the  old  iron  and  rags  man. 
For  many  minutes  the  youth  on  the  bridge,  transfixed 
by  horror,  glared  at  this  vague  shape,  hoping  against 
hope  that  it  would  arise  and  resolve  itself  into  human 
form, —  into  the  human  form  he  had  hated  so  bitterly. 

But  there  was  no  movement  of  the  heap,  there  was  no 
sound,  there  was  no  sign.  The  thing  down  there  was 
Chetwynd  Blagden, —  big,  brutal,  virile  Chetwynd, — 
and  it  was  dead,  horribly  dead ! 

With  a  low  moan  of  realisation,  Eric  drew  back  from 
the  edge,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands  to  shut  out 
the  dreadful  sight. 

He  had  killed  his  cousin ! 

He  was  a  murderer! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  FUGHT  OF   CHETWYND   BLAGDEN 

SLOWLY  his  dulled  brain  took  in  the  fact  that  someone 
was  speaking  to  him,  that  a  voice,  hard  and  metallic, 
was  penetrating  his  consciousness.  The  sounds  seemed 
to  come  out  of  the  air,  the  enveloping  air ;  he  could  not 
locate  them,  and  yet  the  speaker  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  in  plain  view. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  taught  you  that  blow,"  said  the 
voice.  It  seemed  to  the  stunned,  bewildered  boy  that 
this  sentence  was  repeated  over  and  over  again.  There 
had  been  words  before  these,  but  they  had  failed  to 
pierce  his  intelligence. 

Suddenly,  as  if  spurred  by  an  electric  shock,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  to  find  himself  staring  into  the  grim, 
unsmiling  face  of  Adam  Carr.  The  realisation  that 
someone  had  witnessed  the  sickening  accident  —  he  could 
not  think  of  it  as  anything  else  —  came  over  him  like  a 
flash. 

There  was  a  witness !  There  was  someone  to  tell  his 
uncle  and  aunt  that  they  had  been  right  about  him  all 
along !  Uppermost  in  his  mind,  in  that  instant,  was  the 
dread  of  their  uplifted,  accusing  hands.  They,  at  least, 
would  never  believe  that  it  was  an  accident.  They 
would  see  that  he  swung  for  it ! 

"  Yes,  I  saw  most  of  it,"  said  Adam  Carr,  replying  to 
the  question  in  those  great,  stricken  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Carr,  why  didn't  you  come  sooner? 
Why  didn't  you  stop  it?  "  fell  in  hoarse,  unnatural  tones 

from  the  rigid  lips. 

172 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN   173 

"  I  saw  it  from  afar.  The  —  the  rail  was  very  rot 
ten.  A  child's  weight  would  have  broken  it  down. 
See !  "  With  that,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  pushed 
the  remaining  rail  from  its  fastenings.  "  It's  a  crime  to 
let  such  timbers  stay  —  but,  this  is  no  time  to  find  fault, 
We  must  get  down  there  to  him.  He  may  be  alive." 

"  He  is  down  there, —  dead !  "  wailed  Eric.  "  I  can 
see  him.  Look !  That  black  thing  there  by  the  pile  of 
shells!" 

"  Brace  up !  Brace  up !  Don't  lose  your  nerve,  my 
lad.  I've  seen  many  a  dead  man,  and  so  will  you  before 
you  die.  You  — " 

"  But  you've  never  killed  a  man,  as  I  have.  I  am  a 
mur  — " 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  that  I've  never  killed  a  man,  my 
lad.  Come  along!  Don't  be  afraid.  He  can't  hurt 
you  now." 

"  It's  no  use.  He's  dead,"  groaned  the  boy.  "  I 
know  —  I  can  see.  He  hasn't  moved.  I  —  I  didn't 
know  —  it  would  look  like  that.  Why,  there's  no  shape 
to  it.  I—" 

Adam  Carr  grasped  him  by  the  arm  and  fairly 
dragged  him  off  the  bridge  and  into  the  path  that  led 
by  devious  windings  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  The 
boy  was  sobbing,  but  his  eyes  were  wide  and  dry;  his 
lips  were  contorted  by  that  unspeakable  grin  that  de 
notes  overpowering  horror. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  he  cried,  over  and  over 
again.  "  He  forced  me  to  fight.  He  was  licking  me 
when  I  hit  him  that  time.  I  couldn't  have  beat  him, 
Mr.  Carr.  The  rail  — " 

"  Stop  talking,"  grated  the  man.  "  Don't  whine 
about  it.  It's  done,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  I'm    a    murderer,"    groaned    the    miserable    boy. 


174  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  They  said  I'd  do  it  some  day.  They'll  hang  me. 
Then  what  will  become  of  Mary?  Oh,  why  did  I  stand 
up  to  him?  Why  didn't  I  run?  " 

"  Because  you're  not  that  sort,"  snapped  the  detec 
tive.  "  Now  shut  your  mouth.  You've  got  to  begin  it 
sooner  or  later,  and  you'd  better  start  in  right  now. 
Not  another  word  out  of  you.  Stop  it,  I  say !  " 

Half -blind  with  horror,  the  unhappy  youth  stumbled 
along  in  the  trail  of  Adam  Carr.  It  did  not  enter  his 
mind  to  flee  from  the  hated  spot.  He  followed  as  if 
hypnotised. 

They  were  five  minutes  in  reaching  the  spot  where 
Chetwynd  lay,  a  crushed,  spineless  mass.  Eric  threw 
himself  down  beside  the  body,  pleading  in  accents  wild 
for  a  word,  a  single  word,  from  the  lips  of  his  late  ad 
versary. 

"  Get  back,"  commanded  Adam  sharply.  "  Let  me 
attend  to  this."  He  took  the  boy's  place.  In  a  moment 
he  arose,  and  shook  his  head.  "  It's  all  up  with  him. 
Dead  as  a  mackerel." 

"  Try  again !  Maybe  he's  breathing.  Try  his 
heart,"  cried  the  wretched  Eric.  "  We  must  go  for  a 
doctor.  I'll  go.  You  look  after  him  — " 

"  No  use,  my  lad.  He's  done  for.  He'll  never 
bother  you  again;  he'll  steal  no  more  drawings  from 
you ;  he'll  —  but  we'll  talk  about  that  later  on.  Here ! 
Grab  hold  of  his  legs." 

Eric  shrank  back,  aghast.  "  Wha  —  what  are  you 
going  to  do?  " 

"  Hide  it  —  I  mean  him  under  that  clump  of  vines 
over  there."  Eric  still  held  back.  The  man  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoul 
der.  "  See  here,  Eric,"  he  said,  a  wonderful  kindness 
in  his  voice,  "  no  one  knows  of  this  but  you  and  me. 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN       ITS" 

Jfo  one  ever  need  know.  He's  just  disappeared,  that's 
all  —  disappeared  forever.  People  do  that  sort  of 
thing  sometimes.  And,"  here  his  eyes  narrowed,  "  let 
me  tell  you  this :  your  cousin  had  the  best  reason  in  the 
world  for  skipping  out." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  murmured  the  bewildered 
Eric. 

"  You  will,  when  I  explain.  Take  hold  of  him. 
Don't  be  afraid.  We'll  hide  him  until  after  dark." 

Eric  shook  his  head  dully.  "  No,  I  can't  do  that, 
Mr.  Carr.  It's  wrong." 

"  Didn't  you  hear  what  I  said  about  being  the  only 
witness  ?  "  demanded  Adam.  "  No  one  will  ever  find 
you  out,  depend  on  that." 

"  I've  got  to  tell  Uncle  Horace,"  cried  Eric,  twisting 
his  fingers.  "  I've  just  got  to." 

"  Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,"  said  the  man 
grimly.  "  Stay  where  you  are.  I'll  do  it  myself." 

Eric,  shuddering,  turned  his  back  while  the  other 
man  took  up  the  limp  figure  and,  groaning  under  its 
weight,  struggled  across  the  rocks  to  the  dense  clump 
of  vines  that  sprang  from  the  base  of  the  wall. 

"  Now  you  can  look,"  he  remarked  coolly,  a  few 
minutes  later.  He  had  covered  the  body  in  the  mass  of 
green  vines. 

Eric  looked  on  dumbly  as  the  older  man,  with  furtive 
glances  aloft  and  up  and  down  the  dark  crevasse,  began 
a  thorough  and  systematic  search  of  the  ground,  his 
methods  not  unlike  those  of  a  dog  smelling  out  a  buried 
bone.  He  picked  up  a  match-safe  and  pieces  of  the 
broken  crystal  of  the  dead  man's  open-faced  watch. 
A  few  scattered  coins,  part  of  a  gold  collar  button  that 
had  been  snapped  in  two  by  the  strain  on  the  band,  the 
top  of  a  fountain  pen  —  nothing  seemed  to  escape  the 


176  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

trained  eye  of  the  searcher,  who  worked  with  a  swift 
ness  that  was  amazing.  For  yards  in  every  direction 
he  scanned  the  ground.  At  last,  with  a  satisfied  grunt, 
he  gave  over  the  search  and  began  to  wash  the  spattered 
blood-stains  from  the  rocks,  scooping  up  water  from 
the  trickling  rivulet  that  seeped  through  a  crack  in  the 
wall. 

Young  Midthorne,  limp  as  a  rag,  sat  on  a  boulder, 
his  chin  in  his  hands,  and  watched  these  proceedings  as 
if  fascinated. 

Adam  came  over  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  sharply.  Without  a 
word,  Eric  arose  and  followed  him  up  the  defile.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken  until  they  came  out  upon  the  ledge 
far  above.  The  young  man  walked  as  if  in  a  dream. 
He  was  completely  under  the  spell  exorcised  by  this 
calm,  emotionless  master  of  destiny. 

They  seemed  to  be  utterly  alone  in  the  world,  these 
two.  The  placid  landscape  held  no  other  living  crea 
ture  save  themselves. 

After  a  swift,  penetrating  glance  about  him,  Adam 
Carr  strode  out  upon  the  bridge,  motioning  his  com 
panion  to  remain  where  he  was.  He  renewed  his  care 
ful  search.  At  its  conclusion,  he  calmly  kicked  away 
all  that  remained  of  the  broken  rail.  It  clattered  upon 
the  rocks  far  below,  bringing  a  sharp  quiver  of  alarm 
to  the  silent  watcher. 

"  I  guess  there's  nothing  left  to  give  us  away,"  re 
marked  Adam,  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  the 
most  trivial  thing  in  the  world.  "  Now,  I'll  give  you 
a  few  pointers,  Eric.  You  can  take  my  advice  or 
leave  it,  just  as  you  please,  but  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  I  am  your  friend  and  you  can  depend  on  me 
to  the  day  of  your  death,  or  mine.  We'll  go  up  there 


177 

on  Bud's  Rock  and  talk  it  over."  .  .  .  The 
long  shadow  of  the  rock  stretched  out  below  them  on 
the  slate-coloured  plain.  The  late  afternoon  sun  had 
slipped  down  behind  the  upper  ridge.  Through  Eric's 
dazed,  torpid  mind  ran  the  incongruous  thought  that 
Joan  and  Mary  were  in  from  their  peaceful,  happy 
drive  through  the  shady  lanes.  He  sat  beside  Adam 
Carr  on  the  grassy  slope,  staring  before  him  with 
blurred  eyes  as  the  man's  low,  insistent  voice  kept  for^ 
ever  pounding  at  his  intelligence. 

"  You  are  not  morally  guilty,  my  lad,  so  get  it  out 
of  your  mind.  What  happened  was  an  accident.  It 
might  just  as  well  have  been  you  who  went  off  the 
bridge.  You  — " 

"  Why  are  you  saying  all  this  to  me  ?  "  asked  Eric, 
out  of  his  stupor. 

"  I  want  to  help  you.  You  must  be  saved.  It  wasn't 
your  fault,  you  say.  I  believe  you,  Eric,  but  I've  had 
so  much  to  do  with  courts  and  juries  and  public  opinion 
that  I  am  in  a  position  to  know  the  world  would  doubt 
your  story.  Your  uncle  and  aunt  knew  that  you  hated 
Chetwynd.  Do  you  suppose  they'd  believe  you  now? 
No,  my  lad.  They'd  say  you  waylaid  him,  knocked 
him  on  the  head,  and  tumbled  him  into  the  Cut.  You 
have  no  witnesses,  and  I  could  not  help  you.  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  end  of  the  row.  For  all  I  know,  you 
may  have  attacked  him  and  he  was  defending  himself 
as  best  he  could.  You  may  have  struck  him  first  from 
behind.  I  haye  only  your  word  for  it.  I  should  have 
to  testify  that  I  saw  you  strike  him  and  knock  him 
through  the  rail.  My  testimony  wouldn't  help  you 
any.  Besides,  they  would  have  proof  that  you  had 
your  own  reasons  for  killing  him  in  cold  blood.  I  know 
all  about  his  mistreatment  of  Mary,  and  I  know  that 


178  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

you  charge  him  with  taking  your  drawing.  I  know 
everything  there  is  to  know  about  his  actions  during 
the  past  three  weeks.  I've  been  watching  him  all  the 
time.  Let  me  tell  you  this :  he's  better  off  dead." 

"  But  I  —  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  I  swear  I  didn't," 
murmured  Eric. 

"  That's  why  I  say  you  are  not  actually  guilty.  In 
any  event,  it  was  self-defence.  If  it  were  not  for  your 
well-known  hatred  for  him,  your  own  word  might  be 
taken  for  that.  But  you  had  threatened  to  kill  him. 
At  least,  so  he  told  your  uncle  and  aunt  and  Judge 
Bright  on  more  than  one  occasion." 

"  I  never  threatened  to  kill  him,"  cried  Eric,  in  a  cold 
perspiration.  "  He  lied,  if  he  said  so." 

"That's  what  I  told  Judge  Bright.  The  Judge 
Idoesn't  believe  it  of  you,  but  at  the  same  time  if  he 
were  called  upon  to  testify  he  would  have  to  say  that 
Chetwynd  told  him  that  he  was  afraid  of  you.  It 
would  be  bad  for  you.  Now,  if  you'll  be  guided  by, 
me,  you  can  save  yourself.  It  —  it  might  mean  hang 
ing,  my  lad,  and  God  knows  you  don't  deserve  punish 
ment  of  any  kind." 

"But,  he's  dead.     They'll  search  for  him.     They'll/ 
find  his  body.     I  —  I  never  could  stand  up  and  deny 
it  if  they  accused  me  of  it." 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,"  said  Adam  Carr  earnestly,  fix 
ing  the  boy  with  his  keen  eyes.  "  They  won't  find 
him.  I'll  see  to  that.  I'm  going  to  stand  by  you  in 
this  business,  but  you've  got  to  stand  by  me.  You've 
got  to  keep  your  lips  closed  forever.  I  can't  afford 
to  be  mixed  up  in  it,  don't  you  see?  I'm  supposed  to 
hunt  down  men,  not  to  assist  them  in  escaping." 

"  I  can't  do  it !  "  groaned  the  boy. 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN       179 

"  See  here !  Answer  me  this  question :  did  you  de 
liberately,  wantonly  kill  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  No!     God  knows  I  didn't." 

"  But  God  isn't  going  to  judge  you  for  awhile,  un 
derstand  that.  You'll  be  judged  by  men,  before  God 
gets  a  chance  to  forgive  you.  God  isn't  going  to  hold 
this  against  you,  so  why  should  you  give  your  fellow 
man  a  chance  to  do  you  harm?  You're  not  guilty  of 
murder,  but  —  well,  I  guess  you're  beginning  to  under 
stand.  I'm  thinking  for  you  and  for  Mary,  my  boy, 
and  I'm  thinking  hard.  You  can  trust  me.  I  will 
do  what  is  right  and  just,  for  I  know  what  these  damned 
brutes  of  men  do  when  they  get  on  a  jury,  or  when  they 
set  out  to  hound  a  fellow-creature  to  his  grave.  7  am 
your  judge,  Eric.  You  are  the  only  witness  I  shall 
examine,  and  I  will  acquit  you  of  all  blame  on  your 
own  word.  You  may  not  sleep  well  to-night,  but  to 
morrow  you  will  realise  that  you  did  what  could  not 
be  helped  and  that  the  God  you  speak  of  took  away 
Chetwynd's  life  —  God  and  a  community  that  does  not 
keep  its  bridges  in  repair.  Now,  tell  me  slowly,  care 
fully,  just  what  brought  on  the  fight." 

Eric  told  the  story  from  beginning  to  end,  from  the 
instant  he  saw  Chetwynd  on  the  bridge  to  his  disappear 
ance  over  the  edge. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  when  he  said  that 
about  my  sister.  I  just  had  to  fight.  It  was  a  fair 
fight,  too, —  as  fair  as  I  know  how.  I  —  I  watched 
for  my  chance  to  get  in  that  blow  you  taught  me.  I  — 
well,  that's  all." 

"  He  deserved  the  licking,"  said  Adam,  a  grim 
smile  on  his  lips.  "  And  I  won't  say  he  didn't  de 
serve  the  punishment  God  gave  him,  too.  He  waa 


180  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  rascal,  Eric, —  a  nasty  rascal.  I  can  tell  you  who 
that  letter  was  from.  It  was  from  a  woman  in  New 
York,  a  woman  on  whom  he  was  spending  thousands  of 
dollars  that  didn't  belong  to  him." 

"  Didn't  belong  to  him?  " 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  you  believed  all  that  private  in 
struction  rot,  too,  the  same  as  his  father  and  mother 
did.  Well,  I've  got  a  few  rare  facts  to  lay  before  the 
Blagdens." 

There  was  such  utter  vindictiveness  in  his  manner  of 
speech  that  Eric  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  profess  love  for  your  fine  Blagdens," 
said  Adam  gruffly.  "  Horace  and  I  used  to  play  to 
gether  when  we  were  little  chaps.  Oswald  Bright  was 
another  of  my  playmates.  I  was  a  poor  sailorman's 
son ;  they  were  of  the  elect.  I  knew  your  mother,  Eric, 
when  she  was  a  tiny  little  girl.  But  our  family  left 
Corinth  long  before  she  was  in  shoe-top  frocks,  and 
I  never  saw  her  afterward.  That's  neither  here  nor 
there.  I've  never  forgotten  the  scurvy  trick  Horace 
played  on  me  in  school.  Somebody  in  our  room  was 
stealing  things  from  the  desks  of  the  other  scholars. 
Horace  openly  accused  me  of  it.  I  was  driven  out  in 
disgrace.  Not  one  of  my  old  playmates  would  look 
at  me,  except  Oswald  Bright.  By  George,  he  was  a 
great  judge,  even  in  those  days.  He  defended  me  on  - 
all  occasions,  and  he  —  he  pulled  me  out  of  the  water 
once  when  I  actually  tried  to  drown  myself  because  I 
was  so  unhappy.  He  put  new  courage  into  me. 

"  My  father  moved  to  Gloucester  a  few  months  after 
ward,  but  one  day  Oswald  wrote  me  a  letter  saying  they 
had  caught  the  real  thief  in  the  act  of  pilfering,  and 
he  confessed  to  the  whole  range  of  thefts.  He  was 
sent  to  the  house  of  correction  and  proved  a  bad  lot 


all  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  I  never  forgot  Horace 
Blagden's  charge  against  me.  Years  passed  before  he 
grudgingly  apologised  to  me  at  Bright's  suggestion. 
I  don't  mind  saying  I've  never  liked  your  Uncle  Hor 
ace,  and  that's  putting  it  gently.  Now  my  turn  has 
come.  He'll  squirm  when  I  tell  him  the  name  of  the 
man  who  got  away  with  the  bank's  money  a  few  months 
ago.  It  will  turn  his  hair  greyer  than  it  is  when  he 
finds  out  for  a  certainty  that  it  wasn't  John  Payson 
who  took  it." 

"  Payson  ?     The  teller  who  used  to  be  — " 

"  In  Chetwynd's  place,"  completed  Adam  grimly. 
"  A  lot  of  money  was  taken  out  about  the  time  Payson 
left  the  bank.  Your  uncle  sent  for  me.  He  was  de 
termined  Jack  was  the  thief.  I  went  to  work.  For 
weeks  and  weeks  I  watched  every  move  that  fellow 
made,  not  so  much  for  the  purpose  of  finding  him  guilty 
to  please  Horace  Blagden,  but  to  establish  his  innocence 
to  please  myself.  Payson  was  no  more  guilty  of  robbing 
that  bank  than  you  are,  and  I  was  sure  of  it  from  the 
beginning.  Horace  wouldn't  have  it  so.  He  insisted 
that  I  keep  after  him.  He  said  he'd  'get  him*  if.it 
took  years.  Well,  I  told  him  I'd  find  the  thief,  I  didn't 
care  how  long  it  took.  So  I  stuck  to  the  case,  chiefly 
to  clear  Jack  Payson.  His  dad  was  my  best  friend 
when  we  were  boys,  and  his  mother  is  one  of  the  finest 
women  in  the  world.  She's  a  widow  now  and  Jack 
supports  her.  To-morrow  I'm  going  up  to  Horace 
Blagden's  house  to  make  a  charge  against  the  real 
thief." 

Eric  was  leaning  forward,  staring  at  the  hard-set 
face  of  the  speaker,  his  eyes  wide  with  understanding. 

"  You  don't  mean  —  Chetwynd  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  do  mean  Chetwynd.     He  was  the  thief.     I  have 


182  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

positive  proof.  He  took  seven  thousand  dollars  out  of 
sealed  packages  in  the  vault  the  second  day  after  he 
went  into  the  bank  to  be  instructed  by  Payson.  They 
kept  these  packages  there  for  emergency  cases,  being 
a  safe  old  New  England  bank,  you  know."  His  grin 
was  the  quintessence  of  irony.  "  The  money  was  not 
missed  for  weeks,  but  as  some  smaller  bills  had  disap 
peared  from  the  cage  just  before  Payson  left,  it  was 
recalled,  and  suspicion  fell  on  him." 

"  Chetwynd  stole  all  that  money  ?  " 

"  He  needed  it,"  chuckled  Adam  reflectively.  "  It's 
an  expensive  luxury,  keeping  a  girl  in  fine  clothes,  car 
riages  and  champagne,  let  me  tell  you  that.  He  met 
her  when  he  was  in  college,  and  she  knew  he  was  too 
good  to  let  slip.  So  she  hung  on.  She  got  most  of  the 
seven  thousand  dollars  down  there  in  little  old  New 
York,  and  she  laughed  at  him  behind  his  back.  I've  had 
more  than  one  friendly  chat  with  her,  and  I've  drunk 
some  of  his  champagne,  although  he  didn't  know  of  it. 
I  may  add  that  she  looked  on  me  as  a  rich  ranch-owner 
from  the  Far  West.  She  didn't  know  me  for  the 
original  Adam.  I  got  a  good  deal  out  of  Miss  Bunnie 
Da  Vinne.  Yes,  my  boy,  I  ran  your  cousin  right  down 
to  the  ground.  A  day  or  two  ago  I  laid  it  all  before 
Judge  Bright.  He  begged  me  to  let  the  matter  drop. 
But  I  refused.  I  had  told  Horace  I'd  find  the  thief, 
and  that  it  wouldn't  be  poor  Jack  Payson.  So  there 
you  are !  To-morrow  I'm  going  to  make  public  my  dis 
covery  and  ask  for  the  arrest  of  Chetwynd  Blagden  for 
embezzlement." 

He  leaned  back  against  the  rock  and  watched  the 
varying  expressions  in  Eric's  face, —  amazement  and 
perplexity  being  paramount. 

"  His  arrest? "  cried  he,  with  a  swift,  involuntary; 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN       183 

glance  toward  the  ravine.  "  Why, —  why,  how  can  you 
arrest  him  now  ?  He's  —  he's  — " 

"  That's  just  the  point,"  said  Adam  composedly. 
"  But  I  can  bring  charges  against  him,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Carr." 

"  Of  course,  I  can't  arrest  him  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  he  got  wind  of  my  intention  and  skipped 
out, —  we'll  say  to-day." 

Eric  looked  his  perplexity. 

"  Don't  you  catch  my  meaning  ?  "  asked  Adam,  with 
his  first  sign  of  enthusiasm.  "  Chetwynd  isn't  dead. 
Not  at  all.  He  skipped  out  to  avoid  arrest." 

"I  —  I  see,"  murmured  the  other,  light  breaking  in 
on  him. 

"  I  went  through  his  pockets  down  there  in  the  Cut," 
went  on  Adam.  "  He  had  five  hundred  dollars  in  biUs. 
He  was  certain  that  I  knew  everything.  Judge  Bright 
told  him  enough  last  night  to  open  his  eyes  pretty  thor 
oughly.  He  brought  that  money  out  here  to  buy  me 
off.  He  was  desperate,  and  he  was  willing  to  risk 
discovery  at  the  bank  in  order  to  get  me  off  his  back, 
so  to  speak.  So,  you  see,  all  this  makes  it  very  simple 
for  us.  When  I  go  in  to-morrow  to  accuse  him  of  the 
crime,  he  won't  be  there.  His  father  will  say  that  he 
hasn't  been  at  home  since  noon  to-day.  Then,  I'll  tell 
him  why.  He  has  vamosed,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

He  leaned  back  and  studied  his  young  friend's  face 
once  more,  this  time  being  relieved  to  see  signs  of  hope 
and  credulity  there. 

"  Oh,  if  I  can  only  keep  them  from  finding  out,"  said 
Eric,  in  agitated,  eager  tones,  "  I  —  I  don't  want  to 
go  to  prison,  Mr.  Carr.  I  wonder  —  I  wonder  if  we 
can  do  it.  You  can  do  your  part,  I  know,  but  can  I 
face  them  ?  I  —  I  never  told  a  lie  in  my  life." 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  You  won't  have  to  tell  one  now.  Just  keep  your 
lips  closed.  Don't  breathe  a  word  to  a  soul  —  never, 
so  long  as  you  live,  my  boy." 

"  But  I  will  have  to  sit  by  and  join  in  the  talk  about 
him  at  home." 

"  There  won't  be  much  said  about  him  at  home,  I'll 
promise  you  that.  His  name  won't  be  mentioned  there." 

"  But  how  will  Uncle  Horace  explain  his  disappear 
ance?  You  forget  that." 

"  I  intend  to  explain  it,*'  said  Adam  grimly.  "  I 
have  all  my  proof  in  hand.  The  story  goes  to  the  news 
papers  to-morrow, —  all  of  it." 

"Oh,  you  can't  do  that!  It  would  kill  Uncle  HOT* 
ace."  Eric  was  genuinely  grieved. 

"  Horace  Blagden  hasn't  enough  money,  all  told,  to 
buy  my  silence.  I've  waited  years  for  the  chance  \JQ 
strike  back  at  him.  Nothing  on  earth  can  stay  the 
blow  —  nothing !  " 

Eric  watched  his  convulsed  face  in  a  sort  of  stupe 
faction  for  a  few  moments.  Then  his  mind  abruptly 
returned  to  his  own  affairs. 

"  They  will  find  the  body,"  he  half -whispered. 

"  I  will  attend  to  that.  No  one  will  ever  see  that 
body  after  twelve  o'clock  to-night,  unless  the  sea  dries 
up  and  leaves  its  bottom  bare.  No,  my  boy,  Chet- 
wynd's  name  will  never  be  mentioned  by  his  father  after 
to-morrow.  As  for  you,  you  won't  have  any  choice 
in  the  matter.  Your  uncle  will  give  you  your  orders. 
No  one  will  be  allowed  to  mention  his  name  in  his 
home,  or  in  his  presence  if  he  can  prevent  it.  That's 
how  he  will  take  it.  I'm  sorry  for  one  thing,  Eric, 
but  I  won't  hold  it  as  a  grudge  against  you.  You  de 
prived  me  of  the  joy  of  putting  that  young  scoundrel 
where  he  belongs  —  behind  the  bars.  I  have  said  to 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN       18S 

myself  I'd  bury  him  in  a  prison  cell.  I  can't  do  that 
now,  but  I  will  bury  him  somewhere  else." 

"  You  —  you  are  a  hard  man,  Mr.  Carr.  I  didn't 
believe  any  man  could  be  so  bitter,  so  hard." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  that,  if  you  please,"  said  the 
other  coldly.  "  You  can  thank  your  lucky  stars  that 
I  am  a  hard  man,  and  that  I  ana  your  friend.  You'd 
be  in  a  devil  of  a  mess,  if  I  were  not  just  what  I  am. 
Now,  here  are  your  books  and  papers.  I  picked  'em 
up  for  you.  Take  them  and  go  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened." 

"  I  can't  do  it !     I'll  dream  of  him  all  the  rest  of  — " 

"  Rubbish !  You're  young  and  you'll  sleep  a  long 
sight  better  than  you  would  if  you  were  in  a  cell, 
waiting  for  the  hangman's  noose.  You  have  not  com 
mitted  a  murder.  Bear  that  in  mind,  always.  It  was 
an  accident.  Can't  you  say  that  to  yourself,  over  and 
over  again?  You  know  it  is  true.  Time  will  do  the 
rest  for  you.  Now,  get  along  home."  The  man  arose 
and  imperiously  motioned  for  his  companion  to  be  off 
down  the  slope. 

Eric  hesitated.  "  What  —  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  part  way  with  you." 

"  And  leave  —  leave  it  there  alone?  " 

"  Oh,  it  won't  run  away,"  said  Adam.  "  Besides, 
you  forget  it  isn't  there.  It's  on  the  way  to  New 
York  to  meet  Bunnie  De  Vinne." 

It  was  grim  humour.  The  speaker  himself  chuckled 
over  it,  and  Eric,  in  a  sort  of  hysterical  terror,  joined 
in  with  a  harsh,  staccato  laugh  that  was  cut  short  by 
the  sharp  command  of  his  conscience. 

As  they  came  out  upon  the  bridge,  Adam  Can- 
grasped  his  companion  by  the  arm  and  hurried  him 


186  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

across,  as  if  there  were  devils  and  witches  behind 
them. 

"  I  did  that  to  keep  you  from  looking  down  into  the 
ravine,"  he  announced,  in  response  to  the  look  of  amaze 
ment  in  Eric's  eyes. 

They  walked  rapidly  down  the  narrow,  fast-darken 
ing  road,  between  sombre  rocks  and  shaggy  brush 
wood,  without  so  much  as  a  single  look  backward. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Adam  Carr 
broke  the  silence  by  remarking,  in  the  most  casual 
way: 

"  I  left  the  five  hundred  in  his  pocket." 

Eric  looked  up  from  the  road,  which  he  had  been 
covering  with  long,  rigid  strides.  "  I'm  glad  of  that, 
Mr.  Carr." 

"  He  stole  it,  but  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  steal 
it  from  him.  I  guess  the  bank  won't  go  to  the  wall  if  it 
never  gets  back." 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Eric  mechanically. 

The  sky  grew  darker.  Long,  thin  shadows  from  the 
slope  above  advanced  to  meet  them  as  they  strode  into 
the  falling  dusk,  shadows  that  seemed  to  point  eternally 
backward  over  the  shoulder  of  the  wretched  boy,  as  if 
telling  him  of  the  long,  black  road  that  Chetwynd's 
ghost  was  traversing  in  the  painful  effort  to  catch  up 
to  him,  crushed  and  mangled  but  still  revengeful. 

Again  Adam  spoke.  They  were  nearing  the  upper 
gate  to  the  Seaman's  Home,  and  his  father  would  be 
waiting  for  him  there. 

"  Judge  Bright  had  him  up  there  last  night  to  see 
if  he  couldn't  get  him  to  give  up  this  girl  in  New  York. 
He  didn't  mention  the  embezzlement,  but  he  sort  of 
opened  Chetwynd's  eyes  to  a  good  many  things.  The 
Judge  made  me  promise  to  give  him  the  chance  to 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN       187 

wring  an  honest  confession  out  of  him.  But  Chet- 
wynd  wasn't  the  kind  to  confess  a  wrong.  He  couldn't. 
He  was  a  Blagden.  So  he  told  the  Judge  to  go  to  the 
devil  and  left  the  house." 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Carr,  you've  got  to  tell  me  just  what 
you're  going  to  do  with  —  with  Chetwynd's  body. 
I—" 

"  Sh !  Not  so  loud,  my  boy.  Well,  if  you  must 
know,  I'll  tell  you.  There's  no  moon  to-night.  If  you 
should  happen  to  be  strolling  along  Stone  Wall  at  eleven 
or  twelve  to-night,  and  if  you  possess  the  eyes  of  a 
cat,  you  will  see  a  small  boat  put  out  to  sea  from  a 
point  near  the  mouth  of  the  ravine.  There  will  be  two 
men  in  that  boat,  one  dead,  one  alive.  The  living — " 

Eric  grasped  his  arm  in  an  ecstasy  of  horror. 

"  You're  not  going  to  row  out  to  sea  alone  with  — 
with  it  in  the  boat  with  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I'm  not  afraid  of  ghosts.  If  I  was, 
I'd  be  haunted  all  the  time.  You  see,  Eric,  in  my  time 
I've  killed  a  man  or  two.  I've  had  to  do  it  or  be 
killed  myself,  just  as  you  might  have  been.  Yes,  I'm 
going  to  take  him  five  or  six  miles  out,  and  leave  him 
there.  He  will  go  down  in  an  old  iron  chest  of  mine,  and 
the  whole  Atlantic  Ocean  will  not  be  strong  enough  to 
budge  that  chest,  once  it  touches  bottom." 

"  God  in  heaven ! "  groaned  the  boy,  all  a-tremble 
with  the  horror  of  this  grewsome  declaration. 

"  You've  heard  father  sing  that  song  about  *  dead 
men's  chests,'  haven't  you?"  went  on  Adam  calmly. 
"Well,— " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't !  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Eric,"  said  the  other,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  boy's  arm.  "  I  guess  I'm  a  rather  cold-blooded 
chap.  I  didn't  mean  to  upset  you  so." 


188  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Mr.  Carr,  I  want  you  to  take  me  along  with  you  to 
night,"  said  Eric,  abruptly  halting  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  a  strong  note  of  resoluteness  in  his  voice. 

"  What?  " 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.  If  you  are  going  to  do  it  in  that 
way,  I  want  to  be  with  you.  It's  this  way,  Mr.  Carr: 
if  I've  got  to  keep  quiet  all  my  life  about  what  I've 
done,  I  must  be  sure  in  my  own  mind  that  the  —  that  he 
is  really  out  there  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  I've  got  to 
know  it  for  myself." 

"  Don't  you  trust  me  ?  "  asked  Adam,  with  a  queer 
little  smile. 

"  I've  got  to  know  it  for  myself,"  repeated  Eric  reso 
lutely. 

Adam  resumed  his  rapid  pace  without  replying.  His 
head  was  bent  and  his  hands  were  pushed  deep  into  his 
coat  pockets.  Eric  kept  close  to  his  side.  After  twenty 
rods  or  more  had  been  covered  in  silence,  save  for  the 
hard  breathing  of  the  two  pedestrians,  the  detective 
turned  to  his  companion. 

"  I  guess  you're  right.  You  will  want  to  be  sure, 
won't  you?  Come  to  Fisher's  Landing  at  ten  o'clock. 
I'll  be  there  with  a  boat." 

Eric  shuddered.  "  It's  —  it's  going  to  be  horrible," 
he  said,  striving  to  set  his  chattering  teeth. 

They  could  see  old  Jabez  at  the  gate,  a  hundred 
yards  ahead.  He  was  smoking  and  at  peace  with  the 
world. 

Eric  wondered  if  he  would  ever  be  at  peace  with  the 
world  again. 

"  Uncle  Horace  and  Aunt  Rena  will  expect  Chetwynd 
to  come  back  some  day,"  he  mused  aloud.  "  They'll 
never  get  over  expecting  him.  It  will  always  be  that 
way  with  them.  I  don't  believe  I  can  stand  it,  Mr. 


FLIGHT  OF  CHETWYND  BLAGDEN      189 

Carr.  They'll  wonder  where  he  is,  whether  he's  well 
or  ill,  in  trouble  or  out  of  it,  well  cared  for  or  starving. 
It's  —  it's  terrible  to  think  of." 

"  My  boy,"  said  Adam  quietly,  "  you've  saved  them 
from  a  great  deal  worse  trouble  than  all  that.  Some 
men  ought  to  die  young." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    SHADOWS    FALL 

IT  was  long  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Eric,  drenched  by  the  sea-mists,  stole  across  the  lawn 
and  let  himself  into  the  darkened  house  on  the  hill, 
through  a  window  he  had  left  unfastened  at  the  time 
of  his  stealthy  departure  several  hours  before.  He 
was  faint  from  the  horrors  of  that  midnight  excursion. 
His  legs  trembled  beneath  him  as  he  crept  up  the  stair 
case  and  down  the  long  hall  to  his  room.  An  impulse, 
grewsome  enough,  caused  him  to  pause  for  an  instant 
before  the  closed  door  of  Chetwynd's  room.  He  lis 
tened  there  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  on  as  if 
afraid  that  the  door  would  open  in  his  face  to  reveal  the 
figure  of  —  Chetwynd  himself ! 

The  house  was  as  still  as  death  itself.  He  knew 
that  his  uncle  and  aunt  were  sleeping  soundly  in  the 
big  blue  room  overlooking  the  street,  in  serene  igno 
rance  of  what  the  morning  was  to  bring  to  them.  Some 
how,  he  had  the  uncanny  feeling  that  this  was  the  last 
night  on  which  they  would  sleep  soundly  and  in  peace. 

In  his  own  room  at  last,  he  softly  opened  the  door 
leading  to  the  smaller  one  occupied  by  Mary.  He  could 
not  see  her  for  the  darkness,  but  in  time  his  heart-beats 
subsided  so  that  his  ears  could  detect  the  soft,  regular 
breathing  of  the  girl  in  the  white  bed  across  the  room. 

He  undressed  in  the  dark,  leaped  into  bed,  and  al 
though  the  night  was  very  warm,  pulled  the  coverlet 
over  his  shivering  frame,  and  closed  his  eyes  so  tightly 

that  they  hurt,  in  the  effort  to  go  to  sleep  instantly, 

190 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  191 

whether  his  brain  willed  it  or  no.  Many  minutes  passed 
and  sleep  came  not  because  he  courted  it  so  zealously. 
He  heard  the  muffled  strokes  of  the  ancient  clock  in 
the  hallway  below.  He  remembered  that  it  was  out  of 
repair  —  it  had  been  ever  since  he  could  recall  —  and 
was  as  likely  to  strike  fifteen  as  it  was  one;  it  never 
struck  the  correct  number.  The  hour  was  three,  he 
knew,  but  he  found  himself  wondering  how  far  out  of 
the  way  the  futile  time-piece  would  prove  to  be.  He 
counted  eleven.  Then  the  silence  was  more  death-like 
than  before.  The  incongruous  thought  flashed  through 
his  mind  that  his  uncle,  being  a  methodical  person,  was 
singularly  remiss  in  allowing  the  clock  to  go  on  such  a 
prolonged  tantrum  as  this. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  said  his 
prayers.  He  never  had  missed  saying  them  before. 
Mr.  Presbrey  had  been  particularly  imperative  about 
the  prayers.  Formerly  he  had  knelt  at  the  rail  of  the 
bed  to  say  them,  but  of  late  he  had  been  mumbling  them 
in  bed,  asserting  an  independence  that  rather  pleased 
him,  although  he  was  careful  not  to  apprise  Mr.  Pres 
brey  of  the  departure.  Impelled  by  a  strange  power 
which  would  not  be  resisted,  he  slipped  out  of  bed  and 
knelt  once  more  in  the  old,  accepted  way.  Before  he 
knew  what  had  happened,  in  the  course  of  the  set  prayer 
which  the  minister  had  prepared  for  him,  he  mumbled 
the  sentence :  "  Bless  Uncle  Horace  and  Aunt  Rena  and 
Cousin  Chetwynd,  and  bless  my  dear  sister  — " 

But  there  he  stopped.  Chetwynd !  The  name  seemed 
to  strike  back  at  his  lips.  The  prayer  was  ended. 

As  he  started  to  arise,  a  long,  quavering  cry  came 
from  Mary's  room.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  electrified, 
his  whole  body  rigid  from  the  shock  to  his  overwrought 
nerves.  With  bated  breath  and  glaring  eyes,  he  waited 


192  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

for  a  repetition  of  the  sound.  It  came  a  moment  later, 
this  time  louder  and  with  a  note  of  terror: 

"Eric!" 

It  was  Mary's  voice,  after  all.  A  wave  of  relief 
surged  over  him.  In  two  bounds  he  was  at  her  door. 

"  What  is  it?     What  is  the  matter,  Mary?  " 

"  Come  here,  Eric,"  she  cried  plaintively.  "  Oh,  I've 
had  such  a  terrible  dream.  Please  light  the  gas,  just 
for  a  minute.  It  was  so  real.  I  wonder  if  it  could 
have  been  true.  Did  you  hear  anyone  go  out  of  my 
door?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
conscious  of  a  strange  premonition.  "  You  were 
dreaming.  No  one  has  been  here." 

"  Light  the  gas.  I  am  so  nervous.  I  thought  Chet- 
wynd  was  in  the  room,  standing  at  the  side  of  my  bed, 
with  his  hands  reaching  out  to  grab  hold  of  me.  He 
had  the  most  awful  look  in  his  face.  He  was  saying 
something  to  me.  I  couldn't  catch  all  of  the  words,  I 
was  so  frightened,  and  his  voice  was  so  thick  and 
hoarse.  But  I  did  understand  part  of  it.  It  was  bad, 
oh,  so  vile.  I  don't  know  why  .1  should  dream  such 
things.  Won't  you  light  the  gas,  Eric,  please  ?  " 

But  he  stood  there  as  if  turned  to  stone  —  the  blood 
in  his  veins  congealed.  She  heard  strange,  mumbled 
words  on  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  God,  I  wonder  if  he  was  here.  Can  he  be  here 
now,  in  this  room  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  you  ninny,"  cried  she,  with  a  shrill  little 
laugh.  "  Of  course,  it  was  a  dream.  I'm  wide  awake 
now.  I'm  sorry  I  disturbed  you,  Eric.  But, — please 
stay  with  me  for  a  little  while.  It  leas  so  real,  and  I'm 
such  a  coward.  You  know  how  frightened  I  am  of  him 
anyway.  Sit  down  on  the  bed,  Eric." 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL'  193 

"  I  shan't  light  the  gas,"  he  said  resolutely.  He 
would  not  let  her  see  his  face.  That  was  out  of  the 
question. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  In  the  dark 
ness  her  eager  little  hand  sought  his,  and  found  it  as 
cold  as  ice. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is,"  she  cried. 

"Is  it?"  he  asked  mechanically. 

"  Listen,  Eric,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  had  the  dream. 
They  say  there  is  no  explanation  for  one's  dreams,  but 
I  don't  believe  it.  I  think,  if  one  can  only  go  back  into 
one's  mind,  in  some  little  forgotten  corner  of  it,  he  will 
be  sure  to  find  an  impression,  or  a  thought,  or  a  memory 
that  will  furnish  the  cause  for  every  single  dream. 
Sometimes  we  may  have  to  go  back  of  our  present  ex 
istence,  into  the  one  before  this,  or  maybe  we  project 
ourselves  into  a  future  incarnation,  but  we  — " 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Mary,"  he  interrupted  gruffly. 

"  It  isn't  nonsense,"  she  cried.  "  Joan  and  I  were 
talking  about  re-incarnation  to-day.  She  believes  in 
it,  just  as  I  do.  She  thinks  when  we  die  our  souls  pass 
on  to  another  body,  and  the  good  in  us  grows  while  the 
bad  decreases." 

"  Tell  me :  what  caused  this  dream  of  yours  ?  " 

Her  hand  began  to  tremble.  "  I  ought  not  to  tell 
you,"  she  said  nervously.  "  You  will  quarrel  with  Chet- 
wynd.  You  —  you  —  Oh,  Eric,  you  might  do  some 
thing  dreadful." 

"  What,  for  instance  ?  "  he  asked  deliberately. 

"  You  must  promise  me  first  that  you  won't  —  fight 
him.  Oh,  I  am  so  afraid,  Eric,  that  you  will  let  your 
temper  get  the  better  of  you." 

"  What  has  he  said  to  you, —  what  has  he  done  ?  " 
demanded  her  brother,  his  hatred  for  his  cousin  lifting 


194  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

itself  above  all  other  sensations.  Oddly,  he  felt  a  sud 
den,  fierce  desire  to  fall  upon  and  destroy  a  living  Chet- 
wynd. 

**  Promise  me." 

"  All  right.  I  —  I  shan't  do  anything,"  he  groaned, 
and  she  mistook  the  tone  for  one  of  bitter  resignation. 

"  Well,  he  —  insulted  me  to-day.  I  —  I  can't  tell 
you  what  he  said  to  me,  Eric.  It  was  too  vile.  I  could 
have  killed  him  myself.  He  — " 

"  What  did  he  say  ? "  demanded  Eric.  She  was 
struck  by  the  sudden,  exultant  note  in  his  voice.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  glad  that  she  had  been  subjected  to  the  af 
front. 

"  I  can't  tell  you.  He  is  the  vilest  thing  in  all  this 
world.  Oh,  I  hope  God  will  punish  him, —  I  know  he 
will.  When  I  cried  and  told  him  never  to  speak  to  me 
again,  he  said  —  Oh,  Eric,  dear,  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Go  on,  go  on !  " 

"  He  said  I  wasn't  any  better  than  mother  was,  and 
for  me  to  stop  whining.  He  scared  me  by  threatening 
to  tell  people  that  I  —  I  had  already  been  bad, —  like 
the  girls  at  French  Fannie's  —  and  if  I  didn't  — " 

Eric  stood  up  and  lifted  his  clenched  hands  to  heaven, 
a  great  sob  of  joy  bursting  from  his  throat. 

"Oh,  now  it's  all  right!  It's  all  right!  I'm  glad! 
Curse  him,  I'm  glad !  " 

Mary  sat  bolt  upright  and  cried  out  in  alarm. 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Eric?  Glad?  Why  —  why 
are  you  glad?  " 

He  caught  his  breath.  The  thrill  of  exultation  passed 
in  a  flash;  his  turbulent  thoughts  crowded  into  a  nar 
row  channel  that  led  him  back  to  safety.  For  the  first 
time  since  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  he  found  himself 


THE  SHADOWS  FALE  195 

in  full  possession  of  his  wits.  A  wonderful  cunning 
took  lodgment  where  despair  and  remorse  had  been. 
God  had  punished.  It  was  God,  after  all.  Adam  had 
said  so,  Mary  had  hoped  it  would  be  so.  God  had  pun 
ished,  through  him, —  the  one  best  qualified  to  be  His 
agent.  It  was  as  it  should  be. 

His  brain  worked  quickly.  "  I'm  glad  we  know  just 
the  kind  of  a  scoundrel  he  is.  There  won't  be  any  row 
between  us,  Mary,  but  I'm  going  to  tell  him  in  the  morn 
ing  that  he's  got  to  let  you  alone.  That's  all.  I  can 
settle  his  case  by  telling  what  I  know  about  the  girl  he's 
keeping  in  New  York." 

Then,  to  ease  his  own  mind,  he  briefly  told  her  of  that 
single  phase  in  the  unsavoury  life  of  their  cousin,  care 
fully  refraining  from  any  mention  of  his  peculations, 
leaving  that  to  the  developments  of  another  day.  Mary 
was  appalled  by  the  disclosure. 

"  What  would  Aunt  Rena  say  if  she  knew  ?  "  she  whis 
pered,  in  awe. 

He  plied  her  with  questions,  eager  to  obtain  further 
justification  for  himself,  and  succeeded  in  getting  a 
rather  tearful  statement  of  facts.  Chetwynd  had  made 
vile  proposals  to  this  sixteen-year  old  girl,  and  had 
threatened  her  in  no  vague  terms.  The  hateful  en 
counter  took  place  at  the  noon  hour,  just  before  she 
started  out  for  her  drive  with  Joan. 

*'  Won't  it  be  fine  if  they  will  let  me  go  to  Miss  Sin- 
nox's  with  Joan,"  she  cried  in  the  end.  "  If  only  to  get 
away  from  Chetwynd.  I  —  I  don't  believe  I  could  stay 
here  next  winter,  Eric,  with  you  away  at  college.  I  am 
so  afraid  of  him.  Why  —  why,  I  placed  a  chair  against 
my  door  to-night.  I  was  afraid  he  might  try  to  come 
in  here  before  you  got  home." 


196  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  started.     "  Before  I  got  home?  " 

"  I  looked  into  your  room  at  ten  o'clock  and  you  were 
not  there." 

He  turned  very  cold.  "  It  was  so  hot  in  there  that  I 
went  outside  for  a  little  while,"  he  explained  dully. 

"  I  listened  nearly  all  night  for  him.  He  was  out,  too. 
Go  and  listen  at  his  door,  Eric.  See  if  he  is  in  there." 

"  Nonsense.     I  can't  go  snooping  around  like  that. 
He's  in,  of  course.     He  won't  dare  come  in  here.    You're 
foolish,  dear.     Go  to  sleep." 
,      "  Leave  your  door  wide  open,  please,"  she  begged. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
ido.  You're  nervous,  and  I  don't  blame  you.  I'll  get  a 
blanket  and  a  pillow  and  lie  here  on  the  floor  by  your 
window." 

She  was  satisfied.  In  ten  minutes  she  was  sound 
asleep,  secure  in  his  presence.  He  lay  very  still  and 
tense  under  the  window  ledge,  staring  wide-eyed  up  into 
the  darkness,  the  soft  night-wind  blowing  across  his 
face. 

At  last  his  hands  unclenched  themselves  and  his  whole 
body  relaxed  in  surrender  to  the  new  despair  as  he  lay 
there  thinking  it  all  out. 

He  could  not  go  on  being  the  sweetheart  of  Joan 
Bright! 

At  ten  o'clock  Adam  Carr  presented  himself  at  the 
bank  and  enquired  for  President  Blagden.  He  was  in 
formed  that  Mr.  Blagden  had  not  yet  come  down.  He 
had  not  been  late  before  in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  em 
ploye. 

"  Overslept,  I  daresay,"  remarked  Adam  laconically. 

**  He  never  does  that,  sir,"  replied  the  ancient  per 
son  who  served  as  janitor  and  day  watchman. 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  197 

"  I'll  wait,"  said  Adam.  "  By  the  way,  is  his  son 
here?" 

"  No,  sir.  That's  what  makes  me  think  there's  some 
thing  wrong  up  at  the  house." 

"  Have  you  telephoned  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Gray  did,  a  moment  ago.  No  one  is  ever  late 
here,  sir.  That  is,  among  the  employes.  It's  Mr. 
Blagden's  rule.  Sickness  is  the  only  excuse.  Or  a 
death  in  the  family." 

"Umph!"  said  Mr.  Carr. 

Horace  came  in  at  ten-thirty.  His  first  glance  was 
in  the  direction  of  the  teller's  cage  occupied  by  his  son. 
Adam  noticed  a  slight  contraction  of  his  eye-brows,  and 
a  no  uncertain  pursing  of  the  lower  lip. 

He  intercepted  Mr.  Blagden  before  he  reached  the 
door  leading  to  his  private  office. 

"  Just  a  word,  Mr.  Blagden  — "  he  began. 

"  Not  at  present,  if  you  please,"  interrupted  Horace, 
so  irritably  that  the  listening  clerks  forgot  themselves 
and  looked  up.  Mr.  Blagden  was  never  anything  but 
suave. 

"  I  can't  wait,"  announced  Adam  shortly. 

Horace  paused.  His  austerity  seemed  to  durable  be 
fore  the  very  eyes  of  the  furtive  watchers.  Indeed,  they 
were  permitted  to  witness  an  amazing  metamorphosis. 
He  had  turned  sharply  at  Adam's  curt  remark.  For  a 
second  or  two  his  haughty  stare  held.  Then  his  lips 
parted  and  his  hand  went  up  with  a  spasmodic  jerk  as  if 
to  reclaim  physical  control  of  his  features,  but  no 
power  of  his  own  could  conquer  the  sudden  feeling 
of  dread  and  apprehension  that  rushed  up  from 
within  to  reveal  itself  in  his  eyes.  Intuitively  he  knew 
that  calamity  was  upon  him.  A  blow  was  about  to  be 
struck. 


198  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  he  said  harshly.  It  would 
never  do  for  those  fellows  behind  the  counters  to  see  the 
blow  fall,  and  to  go  forth  with  the  story  of  how  he 
shrivelled  beneath  it. 

Adam  followed  him  into  the  private  office. 

"  Well,"  said  Horace,  turning  upon  him  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed. 

"  I  have  discovered  the  thief,"  said  Adam  quietly. 

For  a  full  minute  the  two  men  faced  each  other. 

"  How  much  do  you  ask?  What  is  your  price, 
Adam  ?  "  asked  Horace,  a  deathly  pallor  in  his  cheek. 
He  put  out  his  hand  to  steady  himself  against  the  table. 

"  Price?  "  demanded  Adam,  with  a  frown.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  I  ask  for  nothing  but  the  private  reward 
you  offered  in  the  name  of  the  bank." 

"  It  —  it  isn't  young  Payson  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't.  If  I  were  you,  Horace,  I'd  put  that 
fellow  back  in  his  job  here.  He's  honest." 

"  Speak  out,  man.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Have  done 
with  it,"  cried  Horace,  suddenly  losing  control  of  his 
nerves.  He  was  shaking  like  a  leaf. 

"  You  were  bent  on  punishing  the  thief,  Horace. 
You  said  you'd  give  a  thousand  dollars  to  see  him  put 
where  all  thieves  ought  to  be.  In  all  the  history  of  the 
bank,  there  had  not  been  a  thief  among  its  employes. 
This  thief  was  the  only  thief.  You  were  determined  to 
make  a  lasting  example  of  him.  You  were  going  to 
punish  him  if  it  took  years  to  find  the  necessary  proof. 
Well,  I've  got  the  proof,  all  of  it.  There's  enough  of 
it  to  put  him  comfortably  where  all  thieves  ought  to 
be." 

Horace  made  a  great  effort  to  pull  himself  together. 

"  Will  you  be  more  specific,  Carr  ?  "  he  said,  but  his 
voice  shook. 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  199 

Adam  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  and  with  a  trace  of 
pity  in  his  eyes. 

"  It's  going  to  be  pretty  hard,  Horace.  I  hope  you'll 
take  it  like  a  man." 

Horace  straightened  up;  his  gaze  tried  to  meet  that 
of  the  detective  without  quailing. 

"  I  have  asked  you  to  be  quite  specific,  Carr,"  he  re 
peated. 

"  Where  is  your  son  ?  "  demanded  Adam  abruptly. 

Horace  seemed  to  draw  his  shoulders  in  as  if  his  body 
was  undergoing  a  tightening  process. 

"  My  son  ?  He  —  See  here,  Carr,  what  do  you  know 
of  him?  Where  is  he?  Don't  waste  words.  For  — 
for  God's  sake,  out  with  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  know  where  he 
is  ?  "  demanded  Adam  loudly.  "  Isn't  he  at  home  ?  " 

"  Sh !  Not  so  loud,  please !  No,  he  is  not  at  home. 
I  will  be  quite  frank  with  you,  he  did  not  come  home 
last  night.  He's  —  he's  gone." 

"  Are  you  speaking  the  truth?  " 

"Sir!" 

"  I  understand,  Horace.  It  is  natural  for  a  father  to 
shield  his  son.  He  confessed  to  you.  You  are  going  to 
stand  by  him  while  — " 

"  Carr,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I  did  not  suspect  my  son 
until  I  looked  into  your  eyes  out  there  in  the  bank  a  few 
minutes  ago.  Then,  something  seemed  to  tell  me  what  it 
was  you  had  come  to  say  —  and  to  do.  Now,  Adam,  I 
am  asking  you  how  much  you  want.  What  is  your 
price?  " 

Adam  Carr  drew  back  his  arm  as  if  to  strike.  A  sav 
age  light  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"  That's  the  second  time  you've  asked  me  that  ques 
tion.  I'll  answer  it  this  time."  He  stuck  his  hands 


200  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

into  his  coat  pockets  and  faced  Mr.  Blagden  squarely. 
"  I  have  a  price  and  you'll  have  to  pay  it.  You'll  be  a 
long  time  doing  it,  Horace,  but  it's  got  to  be  paid.  Once 
you  accused  me  of  being  a  thief.  You  drove  me  out  of 
this  town,  disgraced.  You  — " 

'*  I  was  a  boy  then,  Adam.  We  are  men  now.  I  ask 
you  to  overlook  that — " 

Adam  held  up  his  hand.  "  You  have  never  publicly 
admitted  your  error,  even  though  you  knew  you  were 
wrong.  All  these  years  you  have  allowed  Corinth  to 
believe  that  you  are  still  unconvinced.  I  want  to  say  to 
you  now  that  I  wouldn't  sell  the  knowledge  I  have  of 
your  son's  rottenness  for  all  the  money  in  this  bank. 
You  can't  pay  my  price  in  money,  Horace.  You  can 
only  pay  it  with  suffering.  You  are  a  good  man.  Good 
men  suffer  harder  than  bad  men.  You  had  no  mercy  on 
your  sister.  You  are  pleased  to  say  that  she's  in  hell; 
that's  enough  for  you.  Her  children  ?  You  —  well, 
we  won't  speak  of  them.  I  suppose  you  can't  help  being 
what  you  are." 

"  I  am  an  honest,  God-fearing  man, —  a  Christian 
whose  — " 

"  And  like  that  other  God-fearing  man,  you  have  a 
prodigal  son.  Will  you  have  the  courage  to  kill  a  fat 
ted  calf  when  he  returns  to  you,  blackened  with  shame, 
or  will  you  publicly  consign  him  to  the  devil  as  you  did 
your  sister  because  she  was  not  good  enough  to  come  in 
for  your  passover  ?  " 

"  My  boy  can  be  saved.  The  cases  are  not  the 
same." 

"  How  about  the  Widow  Payson's  boy  ?  " 

"  Have  done  with  this !     What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  put  my  proofs  —  and  they  are  unas 
sailable  —  before  the  people  of  Corinth." 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  201 

Horace  eyed  him  quite  calmly.  He  was  master  of 
himself  once  more,  so  far  as  outward  appearances  were 
concerned. 

"  This  institution  will  not  prefer  charges  against  the 
son  of  its  president.  I  shall  restore  all  of  the  money 
that  is  missing.  That  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Adam,  with  a  smile.  "  You  for 
get  me.  I  am  going  to  hunt  this  world  over  until  I  find 
the  thief.  Then  I  shall  bring  him  back  to  you.  It 
rests  with  the  bank,  of  course,  whether  he  shall  be  sent 
to  prison.  But  I  shall  do  my  part,  never  fear.  You 
can't  keep  me  from  hunting  him  down,  and  you  can't 
keep  me  from  giving  the  story  to  the  world.  Sit  down, 
Horace.  I  want  to  tell  you  just  what  I  know  of  your 
son's  actions." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Adam  Carr  left  the  bank.  Be 
fore  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  representatives  of 
New  York  and  Boston  newspapers  were  in  Corinth  in 
vestigating  the  report  that  the  son  of  Horace  was  a 
defaulter,  and  that  he  had  fled. 

The  whole  blighting  story  of  Chetwynd's  crime  was 
to  find  its  way  into  the  great  newspapers. 

Corinth  was  appalled! 

Once  more  Todville  rejoiced,  and  along  the  water 
front  the  denizens  spoke  without  fear  or  restraint.  The 
smug  little  city  was  shaken  as  by  a  monster  convulsion. 

A  Blagden  had  gone  wrong!  A  male  Blagden!  A 
son  of  The  Blagden  at  that ! 

The  Corinth  Courier  waited.  It  had  everything  to 
lose  and  nothing  to  gain.  The  editor  got  very  drunk, 
—  and  he  hadn't  been  drunk  in  ten  years, —  and  sent 
his  impotent  lamentations  to  heaven  on  more  than  one 
street  corner.  He  desired  all  Corinth  to  know  that  he 
couldn't  help  himself.  That  was  the  curse  of  running 


202  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  newspaper  in  a  small  town.  His  hands  were  tied. 
But  he  was  able  to  give  an  excellent  demonstration  that 
his  tongue  was  not  tied  —  that  is  to  say,  not  properly 
tied. 

Before  nightfall  of  that  memorable  day,  the  popula 
tion  of  Corinth,  from  extreme  youth  to  doddering  old 
age,  knew  that  Chetwynd  Blagden  had  robbed  the  bank 
and  had  fled,  under  cover  of  night,  to  join  a  vile 
temptress  in  New  York, —  a  vampire  in  the  shape  of  a 
woman.  Moreover,  everyone  knew  that  Horace  Blag- 
den  had  gone  up  to  the  "Giant's  Castle" — (ghastly 
misnomer!)  —  at  noon  and  had  not  been  seen  outside  its 
doors  since.  Hundreds  of  people  went  out  of  their  way 
to  walk  past  the  house  during  the  afternoon,  casting 
furtive  glances  at  the  windows.  Officials  of  the  bank, 
and  of  other  concerns  in  which  he  was  interested,  tele 
phoned  to  the  house,  and  each  in  turn  was  told  that  Mr. 
Blagden  could  see  no  one,  nor  would  he  speak  with  any 
one. 

Mr.  Presbrey  approached  the  house  at  six,  confidently 
expecting  to  be  admitted.  He  was  turned  away  by  the 
sour-faced  Martha,  much  to  his  surprise.  A  couple  of 
curious  witnesses  at  the  gate  below  hurried  away,  snick 
ering  over  the  minister's  rebuff.  Mr.  Presbrey  walked 
very  stiffly  up  the  street,  dimly  conscious  of  a  shy, 
evasive  sense  of  elation,  admittedly  unbecoming  in  a  man 
of  his  parts,  but  singularly  insistent,  just  the  same.  At 
his  own  dinner  table  that  evening,  he  confided  certain 
beliefs  to  his  wife,  chief  among  them  being  the  opinion 
that  Mr.  Blagden  was  narrow.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  question  that  gentleman's  attitude  toward  the  unfor 
tunate  children  of  Mary  Midthorne. 

"  Chickens  come  home  to  roost,"  observed  Mr.  Pres 
brey,  a  remark  which  may  appear  vague  to  the  reader 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  203 

of  these  lines,  but  not  so  to  Mrs.  Presbrej,  on  whom  the 
inference  was  not  wasted. 

Neither  of  the  Midthornes  was  seen  on  the  streets  that 
day.  They  kept  close  to  the  house,  and  they  spoke  in 
undertones.  All  through  the  long  afternoon,  they  wan 
dered  through  the  tomb-like  house,  occasionally  pausing 
in  the  hallway  near  the  closed  door  of  their  uncle's  room 
to  listen  for  sounds  from  within.  Sometimes  they  won 
dered  if  the  two  people  who  confined  themselves  there 
were  dead  or  alive.  Only  at  rare  intervals  were  signs 
of  life  apparent,  such  as  the  shifting  of  a  chair,  or  the 
tread  of  slow-moving  feet,  or  the  sharp  tapping  of 
finger-nails  on  the  arms  of  a  well-known  rocker  in  which 
their  uncle  was  wont  to  sit. 

Mr.  Blagden,  on  his  return  from  the  bank  at  noon, 
had  gone  directly  upstairs,  followed  by  his  wife.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  emerged  alone.  He  ordered  the  serv 
ants  to  come  to  the  library,  and  there,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Midthornes,  he  announced  to  the  astonished  house 
hold  that  his  son  had  transgressed  the  law  and  was  no 
longer  a  member  of  the  family.  He  gave  no  details, 
knowing  full  well  that  they  would  be  supplied  by  willing 
tongues  before  the  day  was  over,  more  expansively  than 
he  could  have  presented  them  even  if  he  had  been  in 
clined  to  stoop  to  the  task. 

"  You  may  go  now,"  he  said  curtly,  to  a  gaping 
audience  composed  of  cook,  parlour-maid,  waitress,  gar 
dener  and  stable-man.  He  had  said  all  that  he  intended 
to  say.  "  Bear  in  mind  what  I  have  said  about  men 
tioning  my  son's  name  in  this  house,  or  in  the  presence  of 
his  mother  or  myself.  It  is  possible,  even  likely,  that  he 
may  be  apprehended  and  —  er,  ahem !  —  brought  back 
to  Corinth.  If  such  should  be  the  case,  I  shall  not  deny 
him  the  right  to  seek  the  counsel  and  the  help  of  the 


204  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

two  persons  who  are  responsible  for  his  coming  into  this 
world.  This  is  his  home  when  he  chooses  to  come  back 
to  it  in  humility  and  contriteness.  But  as  long  as  he 
elects  voluntarily  to  remain  a  fugitive,  a  —  an  outcast, 
you  might  say, —  just  so  long  shall  he  be  regarded  as 
an  enemy  to  this  household.  I  am  his  father.  If  he 
comes  to  me  for  help,  for  support,, —  ay,  even  for  love, 
—  I  shall  not  fail  him.  You  may  go  now." 

Turning  to  Eric  and  Mary,  as  the  servants  filed  out, 
he  said :  "  Your  Aunt  Rena  will  not  come  down  to 
luncheon.  If  you  will  sit  down,  I  shall  try  to  tell  you 
as  clearly  as  I  can  just  what  it  is  that  Chetwynd  has 
done.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  say  that  you  are  sorry 
for  him.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  expect  you  to  be 
sorry  for  his  mother  or  me.  I  shall  merely  ask  you  to 
be  considerate.  If  you  are  to  gloat  over  his  fall  from 
the  pedestal  on  which  we  placed  him,  kindly  restrain 
yourselves  in  our  presence." 

At  the  end  of  his  careful  and  rather  monotonous 
recital,  he  lowered  his  chin  and  fumbled  for  a  moment 
with  the  tassels  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat 
facing  them. 

"  My  children,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I  am  a  God-fearing 
man,  as  you  have  reason  to  know.  But  I  am  about  to 
defy  Him.  I  shall  pray  to  God  that  my  son  may  never 
live  to  face  these  charges.  I  would  rather  have  him 
take  his  own  life  to-day  than  to  continue  in  the  life  he 
has  begun  to  lead." 

He  arose  and,  placing  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  each, 
looked  into  their  eyes,  with  a  film  over  his  own. 

"  I  would  give  all  I  have  in  the  world  if  my  son  could 
have  looked  me  fairly  and  frankly  in  the  eyes  as  you 
have  always  done.  If  he  could  have  done  that,  he  would 
not  be  where  he  is  to-day." 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  205 

Eric's  gaze  wavered  for  a  second,  but  he  managed  to 
keep  it  steady  after  a  mighty  effort  of  the  will.  "  He 
would  not  be  where  he  is  to-day ! "  The  words  seemed 
to  burn  themselves  into  his  very  soul. 

"  Adam  Carr  will  not  be  turned  aside,"  went  on 
w  Horace,  beginning  to  pace  the  floor.  "  He  hates  me. 
He  will  not  rest  until  he  has  found  —  him.  There  is 
no  way  to  keep  this  dreadful  thing  from  going  to  the 
public.  Before  night  the  newspapers  will  have  it  all. 
It  —  it  will  kill  your  aunt,  I  fear.  To  think  that  her 
boy  may  be  hounded  for  years  by  one  so  implacable  as 
Adam  Carr !  "  He  stopped  at  the  table,  and  from  sheer 
force  of  habit,  arranged  the  magazines  on  the  corner, 
restoring  the  pile  to  its  accustomed  symmetry.  His 
was  a  well-ordered  home.  Nothing  was  ever  out  of 
place. 

"  I  —  I  am  sorry,  Uncle  Horace,"  murmured  the  ten 
der-hearted  Mary,  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

Eric  stood  with  bowed  head,  speechless. 

"  This  should  be  a  lesson  to  you,  Eric,"  said  Mr. 
Blagden  monotonously.  "  Avoid  evil  companions  at 
college.  Keep  away  from  bad  women." 

The  habit  was  strong  in  him. 

"  Your  aunt  will  be  down  for  dinner.     Please  bear  in 

mind  that  no  reference  is  to  be  made  to  —  to  all  this. 

*  I  have  told  her  of  the  drawing,  Eric.     She  says  she  has 

something  to  tell  me  when  I  go  back  to  her.     I  —  I 

trust  it  is  not  something  she  has  felt  necessary  to  hide 

„  from  me.     If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  go  out  on  the 

streets  this  afternoon.     Wait  until  after  nightfall." 

He  left  them,  and  they  heard  him  slowly  mount  the 
stairs.  Then  the  door  to  his  room  was  closed  gently. 
They  did  not  see  him  again  until  dinner  time. 

By  that  time,  scores  of  people  had  called  up  the  house 


£06  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

on  the  telephone,  and  at  least  four  correspondents  had 
been  turned  away  from  the  door,  only  to  take  up  posi 
tions  across  the  street  with  note-books  ready.  Their- 
cameras  got  views  of  the  "  Giant's  Castle "  from  all 
sides.  One  daring  chap  entered  the  grounds  and  photo 
graphed  the  rose-bush  that  Chetwynd  had  planted  on 
his  seventh  birthday,  to  which  some  importance  was  at 
tached  because  up  to  that  season  it  had  borne  white 
roses,  but  had  been  prophetically  barren  this  year. 

No  less  than  a  dozen  eminently  veracious  citizens  had 
seen  young  Blagden  board  a  freight  train  late  the 
previous  evening,  bound  for  New  York.  An  unhappy 
controversy  ensued  over  that  very  point.  No  two  of 
them  saw  him  board  it  at  the  same  place,  nor  were  they 
all  agreed  that  it  was  a  freight^  train.  Some  of  them 
said  it  was  the  express  train  leaving  at  6:11,  while 
others  mentioned  the  local  at  8:32.  John  Hawes  con 
versed  with  the  young  man  in  front  of  Coe's  drugstore 
at  seven  o'clock,  and  he  was  impressed  at  the  time  by 
Chetwynd's  nervousness.  Mrs.  Sanford,  of  the  Second 
Congregational  Church  choir,  was  positive  she  saw  a 
very  blond  young  woman  with  him  shortly  after  eight. 
A  strange  young  woman  in  Corinth,  she  was  quite  sure 
of  that. 

Dinner  at  the  Blagden  home  that  night  was  a  dismal 
affair.  Mrs.  Blagden,  very  wan  and  red-eyed,  seldom 
looked  up  from  her  plate.  Mr.  Blagden  rarely  looked 
down  from  the  old-fashioned  crystal  chandelier,  except 
to  inspect  the  dishes  set  before  him  by  the  solemn 
Martha. 

But  four  places  had  been  laid.  There  was  no  empty 
chair  at  the  table  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  stood 
back  against  the  wall  with  others  of  its  kind. 

Of  the  four  who  sat  there  in  perfunctory  obedience 


THE  SHADOWS  FALL  207 

to  custom,  Eric  Midthorne  was  the  only  one  who  was 
not  wondering  what  the  missing  member  of  the  family 
was  doing  at  the  time.  Two  of  them  were  tortured  by 
the  belief  that  he  was  in  the  arms  of  the  woman  who  had 
dragged  him  out  of  the  sanctuary  they  had  built  around 
him;  the  third  was  not  so  sure  that  he  would  not  creep 
back  into  the  house  when  the  night  was  old  and  the  iown 
asleep. 

Eric,  alone,  knew  where  Chetwynd  Blagden  was 
spending  the  night. 

Shortly  after  the  meal  was  over,  he  excused  himself 
and  left  the  house,  ostensibly  to  take  a  short  walk  about 
the  grounds.  When  he  was  out  of  sight  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  he  broke  into  a  run  and  was  soon 
flying  across  the  garden  in  the  direction  of  Jabez  Carr's 
cottage.  Vaulting  the  high  brick  wall  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  garden,  he  raced  across  the  meadow  and  up  to 
the  barred  gates.  There  was  a  light  in  the  window  of 
the  gate-keeper's  lodge.  Eric  shouted  and  rattled  the 
gates  to  attract  attention. 

Old  Jabez  opened  the  door  and  peered  forth,  over  his 
spectacles.  He  was  holding  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"  Get  away  from  there ! "  he  roared.  "  Dang  ye, 
you  know  it's  against  orders  to  let  —  Hello !  Is  that 
you,  Eric?  What's  up,  my  lad?  " 

He  hurried  over  to  the  gate,  forgetting  his  keys  in 
his  excitement.  Suddenly  remembering  them,  he  would 
have  hobbled  back  for  them  but  for  Eric's  impatient  cry. 

"  Don't  open  the  gate.     Where  is  Mr.  Adam  ?  " 

**  He's  gone  to  New  York,  hot  on  the  trail  of  that 
young  scalawag,"  said  Jabez,  lowering  his  voice  as  he 
came  up  to  the  gate.  "  And  he'll  get  him,  too,  Eric, 
sure  as  you're  born.  They  never  slip  away  from  Adam 
when  he  once  gets  wind  of  'em.  I  don't  mind  tellin* 


2C8  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

you,  seein's  you  don't  love  your  cousin  any  too  well,  that 
Adam's  never  goin'  to  rest  until  he  lands  him  where  he 
belongs.  Say,  wasn't  you  plumb  laid  over  on  your 
beam's  ends  by  the  news?  Gee  —  al  —  mighty,  I  bet 
there's  wailin'  and  gnashin'  of  teeth  up  there  in  yonder 
house." 

The  old  man's  laugh  was  almost  a  cackle,  he  was  so 
excited. 

"  He's  gone  to  New  York?  "  cried  Eric  blankly. 

"  On  the  six-something,"  said  Jabez.  "  Say,  just 
you  wait  a  minute  till  I  get  the  keys.  I've  been  a-dyin' 
to  talk  it  over  with  you." 

"  I  can't  stop,"  said  Eric  shortly.  "  Did  he  say 
when  he  was  coming  back  ?  " 

"  He  won't  come  till  he  fetches  Chetwynd  with  him, 
you  can  bet  on  that,"  said  Adam's  father  grimly.  "  You 
ain't  likely  to  see  Adam  again,  my  lad,  until  you  see  that 
fine  cousin  of  yours.  They'll  come  back  together  one 
of  these  days.  Then,  we'll  see  how  Master  Horace  likes 
—  Hey !  What's  your  hurry  ?  Can't  you  stay 
awhile?  " 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHO    LATJGHS    AT    LOVE 

DATS  passed,  and  no  word  came  from  Adam  Carr.  The 
Blagdens  lived  in  constant  fear  of  a  telegram  announ 
cing  the  capture  of  their  son.  They  started  with  every 
ring  of  the  telephone  bell.  The  rattle  of  the  knocker 
on  the  front  door  always  brought  a  quick  chill  of  ap 
prehension.  Then  they  would  look  at  each  other,  in 
evitably  with  the  same  question  in  their  eyes,  always 
with  an  immediate  lowering  of  the  lids. 

There  was  not  an  hour  in  their  days  and  their  nights 
in  which  they  were  free  from  the  feeling  that  the  front 
door  was  about  to  open  to  admit  their  son,  and  that  he 
would  slink  in  as  if  no  other  refuge  was  open  to  him. 

Adam  Carr  certainly  had  laid  the  foundation  for  a 
sublime  revenge.  The  most  Machiavellian  mind  could 
not  have  developed  a  scheme  for  vengeance  so  complete 
as  the  one  which  chance  had  put  in  his  way.  Barring 
the  defection  of  Eric,  the  Blagdens  might  go  to  the  end 
of  their  days  without  a  single  instant  of  immunity  from 
the  plague  that  hung  over  their  heads. 

So  long  as  they  lived  they  would  be  waiting  for  the 
home-coming  of  Chetwynd. 

Adam's  unhappy  accomplice  appreciated  all  this,  and 
yet  could  not  break  the  spell  that  had  fallen  upon  him. 
He  was  not  blind  to  the  suffering  of  his  uncle  and  aunt. 
In  his  heart  he  pitied  them.  He  found  it  easy  to  con 
vince  himself  that  he  had  not  committed  murder.  His 
conscience  was  clear  as  to  that.  Long  hours  of  miser 
able  reflection  had  brought  surcease  to  his  own  troubled 

209 


210  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

mind.  It  was  not  the  thought  of  Chetwynd  that 
brought  remorse  to  him,  but  the  sight  of  these  tense, 
unsmiling  parents,  both  of  whom,  by  some  miracle  of 
nature,  suddenly  had  grown  gentle  and  considerate  to 
ward  him  and  his  sister.  All  the  time  he  knew  that  he 
was  but  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Fate,  and  Fate  in 
this  case  was  Adam  Carr. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  how  long  he  could  maintain 
this  dreadful  silence.  In  his  heart,  Eric  was  honest. 
He  realised  that  he  was  living  part  of  a  great  lie  and 
that  the  time  was  bound  to  come  when  he  would  burst 
the  bonds  that  held  him  and  lay  the  truth  before  the 
world.  There  were  moments,  indeed,  when  he  felt  con 
fession  rushing  up  to  his  lips,  but  always  it  was  stayed 
by  the  stronger  sensation  of  fear  —  fear  of  the  scaf 
fold!  If  Adam  Carr  was  implacable,  what  of  Horace 
Blagden?  How  could  he  hope  for  mercy  at  the  hands 
of  this  over-tortured,  humiliated  man?  Horace  Blag- 
den  would  not  rest  until  he  had  crushed  the  slayer  of 
his  son,  and  with  him  that  inscrutable  friend  and  adviser. 
The  law  would  clamp  its  jaws  on  both  of  them,  and  that 
would  be  an  end  to  it. 

Eric  was  not  insensible  to  the  fact  that  Adam  Carr, 
in  the  beginning,  had  been  actuated  by  a  feeling  of 
friendship.  He  did  not  question  the  sincerity  of  the 
man's  motives  on  that  vital  day.  Nor  was  there  any 
doubt  in  his  mind  that  he  would  prove  steadfast  and 
true  to  the  compact  made  at  that  time.  The  concep 
tion  of  the  plan  to  harass  Horace  Blagden  came  after 
that  kindly  initial  impulse.  It  was  something  that 
leaped  into  existence  the  moment  he  had  time  to  think 
of  the  possibilities  afforded  by  the  extraordinary  com 
bination  of  circumstances.  Adam  was  a  man  to  think 
quickly,  to  see  far  ahead.  It  was  his  business,  his  trade, 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  ail 

his  training.  That  he  should  take  advantage  of  these 
tragic  conditions  was  distressing,  even  appalling  to 
Eric,  but  what  could  he  do  in  the  premises?  That 
Adam  might,  at  any  time,  betray  him  was  a  thought  that 
never  entered  his  mind. 

As  the  days  went  by,  he  became  more  and  more  recon 
ciled  to  the  situation,  tense  and  trying  as  it  was.  He 
was  not  happy.  The  shadow  was  always  present.  And 
yet  there  was  never  a  time  when  he  could  not  look  his 
uncle  or  aunt  in  the  eye,  and  say  to  himself  that  not 
he,  but  Chetwynd  himself  had  put  the  blight  on  the 
hearts  of  these  two.  He  never  thought  of  Mary  with 
out  experiencing  a  thrill  of  relief,  almost  gladness,  that 
he  had  a  hand,  with  Fate,  in  destroying  the  wretch  who 
would  have  despoiled  her  of  all  that  was  pure  and 
sweet. 

After  all,  Chetwynd  had  gone  down  in  a  fair  fight. 
It  had  been  a  duel! 

The  time  was  drawing  near  for  his  departure  for 
Cambridge.  His  uncle  had  made  all  of  the  arrange 
ments  for  his  winter.  He  was  to  be  pleasantly  situated 
amidst  such  surroundings  as  only  a  Blagden  could  com 
mand.  If  there  remained  any  of  the  old  bitterness  in 
the  heart  of  Horace  Blagden,  it  was  being  rather  skil 
fully  hidden  beneath  the  cloak  of  kindness. 

And  yet  Eric  was  not  quite  sure  of  his  uncle.  There 
were  times  when  he  caught  the  older  man  looking  at  him 
with  a  strangely  penetrating  but  far-away  gaze,  from 
which  he  usually  brought  himself  up  with  a  start.  At 
such  times,  the  young  man  was  troubled  by  the  vague 
conviction  that  Mr.  Blagden  was  looking  past  him  and 
into  the  shadow  beyond,  as  if  he  was  trying  to  ma 
terialise  the  spirits  that  lurked  there  in  waiting.  It 


212  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

was  on  these  occasions  that  the  young  man  quailed  within 
himself,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  uncle  was  actually 
projecting  his  mind  into  direct  communication  with  the 
spirit  of  his  absent  son. 

Needless  to  say,  Mr.  Presbrey,  not  at  all  discouraged 
by  the  rebuff  of  that  first  distressing  day,  called  on  the 
second,  and  thereafter  every  day,  including  Sundays, 
for  weeks  to  come.  It  was  somewhat  of  a  shock  to  him 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blagden  were  unwilling  to  share  their 
troubles  with  him.  In  fact,  the  former  so  positively 
declared  that  his  son's  name  was  not  to  be  mentioned  in 
the  house  he  had  dishonoured  that  the  minister  was  for 
sometime  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

If  he  was  not  to  speak  of  Chetwynd,  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  what  was  he  to  talk  about?  He  had  come  to 
discuss  the  cruel  pain  they  suffered.  It  was  very  discon 
certing  not  to  be  able  to  do  so.  To  be  compelled  to  fall 
back  upon  church  finances  in  the  face  of  such  an  oppor 
tunity  as  this,  was  not  what  he  had  bargained  for,  arid 
yet,  that  is  precisely  what  he  had  to  do. 

Moreover,  to  his  great  amazement,  the  Blagdens 
plainly  resented  a  humble  desire  on  his  part  to  do  a  little 
more  good  in  the  world  by  offering  to  devote  an  hour 
or  two  to  Eric  and  Mary,  who,  he  supposed,  were  liable 
to  neglect  in  this  hour  of  tribulation. 

'*  I  think,  Presbrey,"  said  Horace  evenly,  "  that  we've 
been  a  trifle  mawkish." 

"  Mawkish  ?  "  gasped  Mr.  Presbrey. 

"  Perhaps  that  isn't  the  word,"  explained  the  other. 
"  I  should  have  said  we've  preached  at  them  until  there's 
really  nothing  left  for  us  to  say." 

"  You  mean,  that  our  duty  to  them  has  already  been 
fulfilled?" 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  213 

"  I  believe  they  are  quite  capable  of  thinking  for 
themselves." 

Mr.  Presbrey  stared.  "  I  trust,  Mr.  Blagden,  you 
do  not  contemplate  —  er  —  I  mean  you  surely  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  you  are  now  indifferent  to  their  spir 
itual  needs  and  welfare." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  think  they  have  weathered  all  that 
very  nicely." 

"  I  am  amazed.     For  years  you  have  — " 

"  It  is  my  opinion,  Presbrey,  that  if  they  are  going  to 
be  saved  they  will  have  to  do  the  greater  part  of  the 
work  themselves." 

"  But  surely,  with  God's  help  at  their  — " 

"  Adam  Carr  said  something  to  me  once  that  made  a 
lasting  impression.  I  believe  he  is  right.  He  said: 
*  God  knows  a  bad  boy  as  well  as  anyone  else.  You 
don't  have  to  tell  Him  about  it  morning,  noon  and  night. 
It  isn't  Gospel:  it's  gossip.  It  ain't  proper  to  gossip 
mth  the  Almighty.'  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  don't  see  the  relevancy.  Carr  is  a 
scoffer.  Surely  you  are  not  coming  to  his  way  of 
thinking.  It  —  it  is  unbelievable." 

"  Nevertheless,  my  dear  friend,  it  has  occurred  to 
me  that  if  God  knows  the  bad  boy,  He's  equally  discern 
ing  with  respect  to  the  good  boy." 

"  I  am  quite  confident,  and  always  have  been,  that 
Eric  is  a  good  boy,  Mr.  Blagden,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey 
stiffly.  Mr.  Blagden  felt  the  sting  in  his  subtle,  far-off 
criticism. 

"  Understand  me,  please,  I  do  not  regret  the  methods 
we  have  pursued  in  showing  him  the  right  path.  We've 
done  all  we  could,  Presbrey.  He  will  keep  to  that  path 
if  he  so  desires.  If  he  concludes  to  wander  away  from 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

it,  I  don't  believe  God  or  man  is  going  to  stop  him.  It's 
the  thing  in  here  that  will  keep  him  straight.  God  made 
the  strong  and  he  made  the  weak.  They  go  the  way 
which  is  easiest.  The  strong  go  up,  the  weak  go  down. 
We  can't  guide  them  beyond  a  certain  point.  They 
cast  us  off.  The  strong  don't  need  us  and  the  weak 
despise  us." 

Mr.  Presbrey  left  in  a  state  of  great  depression.  He 
had  suffered  what  he  was  tempted  to  consider  a  personal 
loss.  A  pillar  in  his  temple  was  wobbling.  It  was  the 
most  impeccable  pillar,  at  that,  if  the  metaphor  may  be 
allowed.  If  Horace  Blagden  bent  ever  so  slightly,  it 
was  extremely  doubtful  if  he,  as  God's  artisan,  could 
hope  to  restore  that  portion  of  the  temple  to  its  former 
strength  and  usefulness.  If  Horace  saw  fit  to  bend,  the 
whole  of  the  perfect  edifice  must  needs  sag  with  him. 
Small  pillars  always  are  forced  to  lean  in  the  direction  in 
which  they  are  pushed  by  the  larger  ones,  and  sometimes 
they  crumble  and  disintegrate. 

That  was  the  trouble  with  the  church,  the  world  over, 
said  Mr.  Presbrey.  Too  many  monoliths. 

And,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Presbrey  felt  that  he 
himself  had  been  very  much  put  upon  by  Mr.  Blagden 
in  the  matter  of  the  little  Midthornes.  Somehow,  he 
always  had  suspected  himself  of  being  a  sort  of  cats- 
paw.  Now  he  was  quite  sure  of  it.  Remorse  for  their 
treatment  of  the  children  seemed  to  have  seized  upon  the 
Blagdens.  Unless  he  was  mistaken  in  Mr.  Blagden,  that 
gentleman,  in  chastising  himself,  was  now  coolly  shift 
ing  a  rather  troublesome  burden  so  that  it  might  appear 
to  rest  on  other  shoulders.  In  so  many  words,  so  to 
speak,  Horace  had  given  him  to  understand  that  his 
prayers  would  be  wasted,  that  they  might  just  as  well 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  215 

be  dispensed  with.  It  was  rather  hard  to  hear  one's 
earnest  prayers  catalogued  as  gossip. 

Mr.  Presbrey's  heart  was  sore  as  he  strode  up  the 
garden  path  leading  to  his  own  doorway.  His  wife 
noted  the  faint  flush  in  his  cheeks  as  he  entered  the  sit 
ting-room. 

"  Have  they  had  any  news  of  Chetwynd?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  husband,  sitting  down  rather 
heavily,  and  quite  ignoring  her  question,  "  I  have  come' 
to  the  sorrowful  conclusion  that  it  is  retribution  after 
all.  God  can  and  will  punish  those  who  make  use  of 
His  offices  to  further  their  own  ends." 

She  was  startled.     "  Retribution?     Ends?  " 

"  Mr.  Blagden  is  paying,  I  firmly  believe,  for  his  un- 
christian-like  treatment  of  his  sister's  children.  Yes,  it 
is  retribution,"  said  he,  staring  hard  at  the  floor. 

"  I've  always  said  the  time  would  come,"  said  she,  her 
lips  tightening.  Her  husband  had  not  said  it  in  so  many 
words,  but  she  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  his  visit 
had  not  been  a  pleasant  one.  "  They  are  such  dear  chil 
dren.  And  look  at  Chetwynd !  Goodness  me !  "  That 
was  as  near  to  blasphemy  as  she  ever  ventured. 

Her  husband's  face  brightened.  "  If  —  if  we  had 
worked  as  hard  over  Chetwynd  as  we  did  over  Eric  and 
Mary,  we  —  well,  who  knows  ?  " 

"  We  couldn't  have  saved  that  boy  with  all  the  prayers 
in  Christendom,"  she  announced  flatly. 

"  Oh,  my  dear !     You  forget  what  — " 

"  I  don't  forget  anything.  God  himself  couldn't 
save  a  Blagden  if  he  didn't  want  to  be  saved." 

"  Sh !  My  dear,  that  is  positively  sacri  —  no,  it  is 
worse  than  sacrilegious.  It  is  profane.  I  am  sorry 
to  hear—" 


216  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Do  you  know  what  I'd  do,  Arthur,  if  I  were  in  your 
place  ?  "  she  interrupted  ruthlessly.  "  I'd  have  a  ser 
mon  on  this  very  thing.  There  is  a  moral  to  be  taught, 
an  example  to  be  set.  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  Horace 
Blagden." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Mr.  Blagden,"  said  her  husband 
testily.  "  I  shall  not  take  unfair  advantage  of  him, 
however.  He  is  in  trouble.  He  needs  my  private  min 
istrations,  not  public  contumely.  No,  my  dear,  I  shall 
go  to  him  to-morrow  and  the  day  after.  Even  such  as 
Horace  Blagden  can  be  of  contrite  heart." 

"  You  might  include  Rena  Blagden,"  said  Mrs.  Pres- 
brey.  "  By  the  way,  what  did  Horace  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Sh ! "  said  Mr.  Presbrey,  with  a  quick  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  dining-room.  "  Don't  speak  so  loudly. 
Maggie  is  setting  the  table." 

"  She  never  repeats  anything  she  hears  here,  Arthur. 
Besides,  why  should  we  care  so  long  as  she  is  truthful? 
I  have  the  utmost  confidence  in  Maggie  Green.  I  don't 
believe  that  woman  ever  uttered  a  falsehood  in  her  life. 
Oh,  that  reminds  me.  She  saw  Chetwynd  on  the  way 
to  the  station  that  very  evening,  and  spoke  to  him." 

"  Eric,"  said  Mary,  a  few  days  before  he  went  up  to 
Cambridge,  "  why  are  you  so  hateful  to  Joan  ?  You 
haven't  been  near  her  in  weeks,  and  you  seem  to  avoid 
her  everywhere  we  go." 

"  Has  she  said  anything  to  you  about  it?"  he  asked, 
uncomfortably.  He  was  very  unhappy  over  Joan.  The 
pain  that  his  own  resolve  had  brought  upon  him  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  His  heart  ached  for 
her.  Their  hour  of  bliss  had  been  so  short,  and  she,  at 
least,  would  not  understand  why  it  had  ended.  There 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  217 

moments  when  he  called  himself  a  brute  instead  of 
a  martyr. 

"  She  is  hurt,  Eric,  terribly  hurt.  Honestly,  she 
doesn't  seem  like  the  same  girl  of  late.  Haven't  you 
noticed  that  she  doesn't  come  here  any  more  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  busy  cramming  for  my  exami  — "  he  began 
lamely,  sick  at  heart. 

"  Rubbish !  "  blazed  Mary.  "  You  don't  have  to  cram. 
You're  just  plain  disagreeable,  that's  all.  She  has  been 
so  nice  to  me  about  Miss  Sinnox's  —  and  about  every 
thing  else,  too.  Why  are  you  so  mean  to  her?  " 

"  I  must  go  up  to  say  good-bye  to  her,"  he  said, 
shifting  his  gaze  suddenly. 

"  And  what's  worse,  I  don't  understand  you.  We 
used  to  go  out  on  Stone  Wall  every  day  or  two.  They 
were  jolly  times  for  me.  But  now  —  why,  now  you 
won't  go  near  the  dear  old  place  with  me.  You  never 
get  any  farther  than  Uncle  Jabe's,  and  I'm  tired  of  feed 
ing  the  squirrels,  if  you  must  know  it.  We  must  get 
over  being  children  sometime,  Eric.  We  can't  always 
feed  squirrels  and  listen  to  ghost  stories.  Now,  you're 
going  away  next  week,  and  I  shan't  see  you  till  Christ 
mas-time.  Won't  you  just  try  to  be  nice  and  agreeable 
for  awhile?  Be  nice  to  Joan,  for  my  sake." 

To  her  astonishment,  he  turned  abruptly  and  almost 
ran  away  from  her.  She  heard  the  sob  that  broke 
through  his  drawn  lips  after  his  back  was  turned,  and 
she  saw  the  convulsive  movement  of  his  shoulders.  Then 
she  cried  out  in  wonder  and  dismay,  her  dear  little  heart 
instantly  filled  with  love  and  pity,  but  he  did  not  turn 
back.  Her  warm,  adorable  face  went  very  pale  and  the 
tears  sprang  to  the  lovely  eyes. 

The  long-expected  letter  from  Adam  Carr  came  that 


218  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

same  afternoon.  Greatly  agitated,  Eric  refrained  from 
opening  it  at  the  house,  or  in  the  presence  of  others,  but 
hurried  off  to  the  seclusion  of  the  woods  above  the  town. 
Here  he  had  spent  many  hours  during  the  past  few 
weeks,  alone  with  his  meditations.  The  broad  green 
meadows  stretched  out  below  the  borders  of  the  forest, 
sinking  gently  toward  the  rock-girt  coast  to  the  north  of 
Todville  on  the  Point.  Here  at  the  edge  of  the  wood 
land  the  shade  was  most  inviting  on  the  hot  summer 
days,  cooled  by  the  breezes  from  the  sea,  and  moist  with 
the  breath  of  ferns  and  the  mosses.  The  blazing  sun 
of  midday  never  penetrated  this  sheltered  area,  nor  were 
its  rays  intense  enough  to  shrivel  the  bright  green  grass 
that  carpeted  the  sunken  meadows. 

Eagerly  he  devoured  the  news  from  his  strange  ad 
viser  and  accomplice.  Adam  wrote  from  New  Orleans, 
where  he  had  gone,  he  said,  in  connexion  with  a  matter 
quite  foreign  to  the  Blagden  affair.  He  was  writing, 
however,  to  the  president  of  the  bank  to  inform  him 
that  the  defaulter  had  sailed  for  a  port  at  present  un 
known  to  him,  but  that  "  tune  would  tell."  There  was 
a  grim,  relentless  humour  in  his  reference  to  Chet- 
wynd's  whereabouts.  Of  course  (he  went  on),  Eric  had 
kept  himself  informed  as  to  the  earlier  features  of  the  in 
vestigation  and  the  chase.  He  must  have  seen  in  the 
newspapers  that  Bunnie  De  Vinne  quite  readily  satis 
fied  the  authorities,  as  well  as  himself,  that  she  knew  ab 
solutely  nothing  of  young  Blagden.  She  was  particu 
larly  eager  to  have  it  known  that  she  had  not  been  "  keen 
about  him "  at  any  time.  Indeed,  she  averred,  in  a 
language  of  her  own,  Chetwynd  made  her  tired  and  she 
had  chucked  him  weeks  before  the  smash-up.  She  ad 
mitted  that  he  had  spent  a  neat  bit  of  money  on  her, 
but  that  it  wasn't  a  marker  to  what  other  girls  were 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  219 

getting.  In  fact,  it  really  wasn't  much  more  than  pin 
money,  as  the  wind  was  blowing  in  other  quarters.  Miss 
De  Vinne,  with  an  asperity  that  did  not  go  very  well  with 
her  scornful  attitude,  gave  it  as  her  belief  that  Chet- 
wynd  had  taken  up  with  a  girl  named  Blanche  Some- 
thing-or-other,  she  couldn't  recall  her  last  name,  which 
wasn't  her  own,  anyway. 

Adam  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  made  it  a  point  to 
ferret  out  Miss  Blanche  Some-thing-or-other.  He 
found  her  on  the  road  with  a  big  burlesque  show,  mak 
ing  Philadelphia  and  Boston  as  side  steps  from  Broad 
way.  Her  contract,  it  seems,  stipulated  that  she  was 
to  go  no  farther  away  from  New  York  than  these  two 
cities,  and  she  was  to  play  in  no  one-night  stands.  She 
had  a  very  small  salary,  but  diamond-pin  money.  It 
was  not  difficult  for  her  to  prove  that  she  knew  nothing 
of  young  Blagden's  whereabouts.  He  certainly  was  not 
"  trailing  her." 

In  the  concluding  paragraph  of  this  unsatisfying 
letter,  Adam  very  briefly  expressed  the  hope  that  Eric's 
first  year  in  Harvard  would  be  a  splendid  one.  Rather 
grimly  he  suggested  that  the  "  first  year  is  always  the 
hardest  to  get  through,  no  matter  what  you're  undertak 
ing.  After  that,  it's  easy."  Proceeding,  he  urged 
him  to  allow  no  outside  influences  to  worry  him,  but  to 
devote  all  his  time  and  energies  to  the  work  ahead. 
Then  he  signed  himself,  "  Your  staunch  friend  until 
death,  Adam  Carr,"  underlining  the  words  "  until 
death." 

It  was  Adam's  way  of  convincing  his  friend  that  his 
secret  was  safe. 

Eric  re-read  the  letter  several  times,  conscious  of  a 
primal  disappointment  that  gradually  gave  way  before 
a  sense  of  security  in  view  of  the  really  subtle  wording 


220  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

of  the  epistle.  Adam  told  him  everything,  and  yet  to 
the  casual  observer  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  between 
the  lines.  Of  one  thing  Eric  could  be  sure:  the  man 
meant  to  keep  up  the  travesty  of  hounding  Horace  Blag- 
den's  son  until  he  tired  of  the  sport,  after  which  it 
would  be  a  simple  matter  to  end  it  all  by  producing  evi 
dence  of  his  quarry's  death  in  some  obscure  corner  of 
the  world. 

The  young  man  folded  the  sheets  and  was  restoring 
them  to  the  envelope  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
a  sound  near  at  hand, —  a  sound  as  of  someone  stealthily 
moving  in  the  fern  banks  beyond  the  tree  against  which 
he  leaned  his  back.  He  whirled  and  partially  rose  to  his 
feet,  a  vast  sense  of  alarm  assailing  him. 

Not  twenty  feet  away  stood  Joan  Bright,  her  gaze 
full  upon  him.  Something  in  her  eyes  told  him  that 
she  had  been  standing  there  for  some  time,  shy  and  un 
certain  as  to  whether  she  should  accost  him  or  flee  the 
place  in  confusion.  He  came  to  his  feet  in  an  instant, 
paling  and  flushing  by  turns.  Her  serious  dark  eyes 
wavered  and  the  lids  were  lowered  for  a  second;  then 
she  met  his  gaze  resolutely. 

"  I  saw  you  from  the  road,  Eric,"  she  said  simply. 
He  was  struck  by  the  hurt,  appealing  look  in  her  eyes. 
It  shamed  him.  "  What  have  I  done,  Eric?  What  has 
happened  to  —  to  — "  She  flushed  piteously  and  could 
not  go  on. 

He  sprang  forward,  clasping  the  hands  that  were 
raised  as  if  to  ward  him  off. 

"  Oh,  Joan,"  he  cried,  casting  his  resolve  to  the 
winds,  "  I  haven't  changed,  I  swear  I  haven't.  I  love 
you  a  thousand  times  more  than  I  ever  did.  I  —  I 
would  die  for  you.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  have  you  feel 
-as  you  do — " 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE 

She  broke  in  plaintively :  "  What  have  I  done, 
Eric?" 

"  You  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  "  The  tears  were 
swimming  in  his  eyes.  She  withdrew  one  of  her  hands, 
but  only  to  lay  it  tenderly  against  his  cheek.  "  You 
ought  to  hate  me,  Joan.  I've  been  a  beast  to  treat  you 
as  I  have.  But  I  couldn't  do  otherwise.  I  had  to  do 
it.  I  can't  let  you  go  on  loving  me." 

She  drew  away  from  him,  as  if  he  had  struck  her  in 
the  face.  Her  eyes  grew  wide  with  pain  and  wonder. 

"  You  —  you  mean,  Eric,  you  don't  want  me  for 
your  sweetheart  any  longer?  "  she  said,  scarcely  above  a 
whisper.  That  piteous  look  was  more  than  he  could 
bear. 

"  I  love  you  —  Oh,  how  I  love  you,"  he  cried.  "  I 
shouldn't  have  said  that  to  you.  I  —  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  saying.  I  do  want  you.  I  shall  always  want 
you.  Don't  cry,  Joan  —  please  don't !  I'll  —  I'll  get 
down  on  my  knees  and  beg  you  to  forgive  — " 

She  came  up  to  him  swiftly,  her  eyes  gleaming 
through  the  tears  of  vanquished  shame,  her  lips  tremu 
lous  with  a  smile  of  perplexity.  Her  hands,  both  of 
them,  were  pressed  to  his  lips,  cutting  short  the  sen 
tence. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Eric.  How  queer  you  are. 
Don't  you  know —  don't  you  know  that  I  want  you  to 
be  —  to  be  what  you  said  you'd  be.  My  sweetheart. 
Oh,  Eric,  I've  been  so  miserable.  Something  has  hap 
pened.  You  must  tell  me." 

He  kissed  her  fingers  hungrily.  Then  he  clasped  her 
slim,  yielding  body  in  his  strong  young  arms  and  kissed 
her  lips  again  and  again.  Her  arm  went  up  about  his 
neck  and  everything  was  forgotten. 

Slowly  he  came  to  his  senses.     He  held  her  away  from 


222  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

him,  still  panting  from  the  fervour  of  his  wild,  uncon 
trolled  passion. 

"  Listen,  Joan,"  he  began  dully,  at  a  loss  for  words. 
"I  —  I  ought  not  to  hold  jou  to  your  promise.  You 
don't  know — " 

She  gave  him  a  ravishing  smile.  Surely,  in  all  the 
world,  there  was  no  one  so  lovely  as  Joan  Bright  in  that 
wonderful  moment. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  yourself,"  she  cried. 
"  I  shall  hold  you  to  yours.  How  can  you  say  such  a 
thing  to  me  after  —  after  this  ?  " 

Suddenly  her  eyes  grew  dark  with  doubt  and  misgiv 
ing.  Something  in  his  white,  drawn  face  smote  out  the 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  Eric?     Tell  me,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  dumb  with  despair. 

"  Sit  down  here  with  me,  dear,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
don't  care  what  it  is,  it  can't  change  my  feeling  toward 
you.  Nothing  can  do  that." 

They  sank  to  the  soft,  green  turf,  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  his  back  against  the  tree.  She  waited  a  long 
time  for  him  to  speak.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 
holding  her  breath. 

"  You  —  you  said  we  were  sweethearts,  Eric,"  she 
breathed.  "  I  believed  you.  Didn't  you  mean  it?  " 

Unconsciously  he  gripped  her  hand  so  tightly  that  it 
must  have  hurt  her,  yet  she  did  not  appear  to  feel  the 
pain. 

He  was  at  the  point  of  blurting  out  the  whole  dev 
astating  truth.  His  honest  soul  saw  no  other  way  out 
of  it.  It  was  right  and  just  that  she  should  know,  that 
she  should  understand  why  he  had  behaved  so  strangely 
toward  her. 

Then  he  remembered  his  compact  with  Adam  C&rr. 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE 

He  recalled  his  friend's  cold,  almost  soulless  admonition : 
"  Don't  let  this  little  accident  of  yours  alter  a  single 
purpose  or  hope  you  now  may  cherish.  Go  on,  just  as 
if  it  hadn't  happened.  It  wasn't  the  strength  of  your 
arm  that  did  it,  but  the  weakness  of  that  blamed  rail 
ing."  He  was  never  to  forget  that  speech.  Part  of  it 
was  like  Adam  Carr,  part  of  it  reminded  him  not  a  little 
of  Mr.  Presbrey,  incongruous  as  it  may  appear. 

"  Of  course,  I  meant  it,"  he  cried,  his  handsome  young 
face  aglow  with  the  rebound  of  blood.  "  I'm  never 
going  to  give  you  up,  Joan.  I'm  not  afraid  any  longer. 
Something  happened  not  long  ago  —  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  was  —  that  made  it  look  as  though  I  couldn't 
go  on  being  the  same.  It  almost  killed  me.  Something 
that  made  it  appear  wrong  for  me  to  —  to  go  on,  that's 
all.  But  what's  the  use  going  on  with  anything,  if  I 
can't  have  you  to  think  of,  to  look  up  to,  to  wait  for 
and  to  work  for?  You're  everything,  Joan,  everything, 
and  always  will  be." 

She  was  smoothing  his  hair  with  a  timid,  loving  hand. 
Somehow,  the  gentle  caress  was  rubbing  away  the  trou 
bles  that  clogged  his  brain.  The  world  was  growing 
brighter. 

"Was  —  was  it  what  happened  to  Chetwynd?  "  she 
asked  softly. 

He  started  guiltily.  The  look  in  his  eyes  passed  in  a 
second,  however.  "  It  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  he 
said,  with  an  involuntary  glance  toward  the  sea. 

"  Why  should  it  make  any  difference  to  us  ?  "  she  asked 
quickly.  "  You  are  not  to  blame  for  the  awful  things 
he  did." 

"  I  know,"  he  admitted  uncomfortably. 

"  Was  it  because  you  thought  I  —  or  father,  for  that 
matter, —  would  let  that  alter  our  opinion  of  you  ?  " 


224.  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  smiled  wearily,  stroking  her  hand. 

She  went  on  eagerly :  "  It  couldn't  be  so,  Eric. 
Father  thinks  you  are  the  finest  boy  he  knows.  He 
never  approved  of  Chetwynd.  You  couldn't  possibly 
be  the  —  the  same  as  he." 

"  But,  you  know  they  all  prophesy  a  worse  ending 
for  me,"  he  said  gloomily,  without  realising  that  his 
secret  thoughts  were  crowding  to  the  surface. 

"  Pooh ! "  she  cried.  "  I  know  what  you  mean. 
Mary  has  told  me  all  the  things  they've  said  to  you. 
But  that  can't  happen.  You  —  why,  Eric,  dear,  you 
just  couldn't  kill  anybody.  You  are  too  tender  and 
sweet-hearted.  Oh,  I  know  you ! "  She  kissed  the 
brown  fingers  that  were  convulsively  carried  to  her  lips. 

The  fingers  of  the  very  hand  that  sent  Chetwynd 
against  the  treacherous  railing! 

A  low,  mocking  laugh  came  from  the  wood  behind 
them,  a  laugh  that  brought  a  rush  of  icy  perspiration 
through  every  pore  in  Eric's  body.  He  whirled  and 
peered  into  the  shadows,  his  lips  parted  in  a  sort  of 
stupefying  horror. 

It  was  the  mean,  never-to-be-forgotten  laugh  of  Chet 
wynd  Blagden! 

The  girl  drew  back  in  amazement. 

"  What  is  it,  Eric?  "  she  cried. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  it  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"Hear  what?" 

"  The  laugh.  Good  heavens,  Joan,  didn't  you  hear 
it?  " 

"  No,  you  silly  boy.  You  must  be  dreaming,"  she 
cried  merrily. 

He  could  see  no  one  among  the  trees.  They  were 
absolutely  alone.  He  sank  back  against  the  tree,  limp 


WHO  LAUGHS  AT  LOVE  225 

and  weak.  Passing  his  hand  over  his  wet  forehead,  he 
muttered : 

"I  —  I  thought  I  heard  —  but  I  must  have  been  mis 
taken.  There  is  no  one,  is  there?"  * 

"  There  are  some  men  repairing  the  bridge  at  Bud's 
Rock,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  them  this  morning.  But 
that  is  half  a  mile  away.  They  are  putting  up  new 
railings." 

He  arose  abruptly.  "  Come,"  he  said  nervously, 
"  let's  go  home,  Joan.  It's  later  than  I  thought." 

They  hurried  off  across  the  smooth,  green  meadow, 
into  the  hot  sunshine.  He  led  her  directly  away  from 
the  cool,  inviting  shade  of  the  wood,  ignoring  her  pro 
tests. 

"  It's  shorter  this  way,"  he  argued  lamely,  but  that 
afforded  slight  content  to  her.  He  was  clasping  her 
hand  in  his  and  he  was  saying  over  and  over  again,  as 
much  to  himself  as  to  her :  "  We  will  be  sweethearts 
always.  Nothing  can  ever  come  between  us  now,  Joan." 

"  As  if  there  could  be  any  danger  of  that,"  she  said 
simply. 

The  third  day  after  this  meeting  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  Eric  departed  for  Cambridge,  firm  in  his  decision 
to  let  nothing  stand  in  the  way  of  his  happiness  with 
Joan  Bright. 

But  he  was  riot  soon  to  get  over  the  shock  of  the 
imaginary  laugh  that  came  to  him  from  nowhere,  from 
no  one  in  this  world. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HOBACE    WHITES    A    LETTEE 

/AT  the  end  of  four  years,  Eric  Midthorne  came 
out  of  Harvard.  He  prepared  at  once  for  the  exam 
inations  of  the  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris  and  passed  them 
successfully,  standing  high  among  the  Americans  who 
went  through. 

During  the  summer  of  his  twenty-first  year,  and 
while  he  was  still  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge,  his 
uncle,  after  divulging  the  nature  of  the  legacy  which 
was  to  fall  to  him,  spent  hours  out  of  each  day  in 
counselling  the  young  man  as  to  the  wisest  and  best 
way  to  make  the  most  of  his  grandfather's  bequest. 
There  would  be  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  coming  to  him.  A  solid  nest  egg,  Mr.  Blagden 
was  wont  to  remark,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the 
funds  were  so  diversely  invested  that  Eric  was  once  in 
clined  to  observe,  with  ill-timed  facetiousness,  that  it 
might  be  better  to  call  it  a  scrambled  egg.  His  Uncle 
Horace  repaid  the  effort  with  a  pained,  yet  tolerant 
frown,  as  if  to  say :  "  Harvard  is  not  what  he  was  in 
my  day."  He  always  spoke  of  his  alma  mater  in  the 
masculine  sense,  because,  he  argued,  the  college  was 
named  for  and  after  a  man,  not  a  woman.  Merely  a 
little  stitch  in  the  character  of  Horace  Blagden. 

On  his  twenty-first  birthday,  Eric  found  himself  not 
only  a  man,  but  a  free  agent  insofar  as  his  inheritance 
was  concerned.  There  were  bonds  and  mortgages,  bank 

stocks   and  building-lots,  to  say  nothing  of  holdings 

226 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  227 

in  nearly  every  public  utility  concern  in  the  city  of 
Corinth. 

"  You  will  have  an  income  of  nearly  ten  thousand 
dollars,"  announced  Horace,  after  filing  his  final  report 
as  guardian.  In  other  words,  the  best  New  England 
rates.  That  is  what  it  came  to. 

"  Uncle  Horace,"  said  Eric,  as  they  left  the  court 
house  together,  "  I  feel  that  I  owe  you  a  great  deal 
that  cannot  be  repaid  in  thanks.  You  have  spent  a 
great  deal  of  money  in  caring  for  Mary  and  me  — " 

Horace  checked  him  with  a  gesture.  "  Pray  do  not 
labour  under  the  delusion,  Eric,  that  you  and  Mary  have 
been  —  er,  ahem  —  subsisting  on  charity.  You  did 
not  pay  strict  attention  to  the  reading  of  my  final  re 
port,  I  fear.  It  is  a  very  bad  habit  to  get  into.  Al 
ways  pay  attention  to  such  things.  My  report,  as 
usual,  sets  forth  all  the  expenditures  for  the  year.  You 
will  find,  if  you  examine  it  even  casually,  that  you  owe 
nothing  to  me  —  er  —  ahem !  —  I  mean  in  a  Substan 
tial  way.  I  shall  be  fully  repaid  by  an  expression  of 
gratitude." 

He  was  unconsciously  ironic.  Not  for  the  world 
would  he  have  had  it  appear  so%  It  was  his  way  of 
informing  Eric  that  he  had  charged  up  his  "  board  and 
keep,"  through  all  those  years,  to  running  expenses. 

"  You  mean,"  said  Eric,  a  trifle  dazed,  "  that  Mary 
and  I  have  paid  for  —  for  what  we've  had  from  you  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"I  —  I  wish  I  had  known  that  long  ago,"  muttered 
the  young  man,  staring  straight  before  him,  his  jaws 
set. 

"  I  want  to  set  you  straight  as  to  one  thing,  Eric," 
said  his  uncle  steadily.  He  took  the  young  man's  arm 


228  MARY  MIDTKORNE 

in  his  hand,  an  unprecedented  bit  of  informality  on 
his  part.  "  I  fear  that  you  may  conceive  the  idea  that 
I  am  niggardly  in  this  matter.  Believe  me,  /  am  the 
one  who  pays.  I  am  the  one  who  filed  the  reports  — 
open  reports,  mind  you  —  showing  that  I  have  charged 
up  to  my  own  sister's  children  the  cost  of  their  food, 
their  clothes,  their  bringing-up.  The  whole  of  Corinth 
knows  that  I  have  done  this  thing.  So,  you  see,  I  get 
my  pay  in  the  sneers  that  pass  behind  my  back  —  yes, 
sometimes  in  these  later  days,  before  my  eyes.  But  I 
had  an  understanding  with  myself  when  I  took  you 
into  my  home  years  ago,  in  face  of  the  opposition  of 
your  shiftless  relatives  in  the  South.  I  did  not  intend 
you  to  come  as  charity  wards,  so  to  speak.  I  did  not 
love  you  sufficiently  well  to  bestow  charity  upon  you. 
To  be  frank,  I  resented  you  both  bitterly.  But,  I  am 
a  fair  man.  Your  Southern  relatives  were  proud. 
They  would  not  have  had  you  become  objects  of  char 
ity.  I  told  them  that  a  Blagden  was  never  an  object 
of  charity.  A  Blagden  would  pay  for  his  own  out  of 
his  own.  You  are  Blagdens,  both  of  you.  To-day 
you  can  look  me  in  the  face  and  say  that  you  do  not 
owe  me  a  dollar.  You  are  independent,  Eric.  I  have 
seen  to  it  that  you  who  came  to  me  against  your  will, 
who  remained  in  my  house  all  these  years  because  you 
could  not  help  yourself, —  I  say  I've  seen  to  it  that 
you  are  under  no  pecuniary  obligation  to  me.  You 
have  paid  me,  out  of  your  inheritance,  for  everything 
you  have  received,  and  so  has  Mary." 

"  Uncle  Horace,  I— " 

"  Just  a  moment,  please.  I  am  not  so  penurious  as 
you  think.  My  will  has  been  made,  Eric,  these  many 
years.  In  it  there  is  a  special  clause,  restoring  to  you 
every  penny  of  the  money  I  used  in  the  payment  of 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  229 

these  —  er,  ahem !  —  fixed  charges,  you  might  say.  I 
say  it  is  a  special  clause,  because  during  the  last  year 
I  altered  my  will  in  one  other  and  somewhat  vital  par 
ticular.  I  will  not  go  into  that,  however." 

His  lean  grey  face  hardened  as  he  uttered  the  last 
sentence ;  a  far-away  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  But  I  can't  think  of  taking  back  " —  began  Eric, 
all  at  sea  over  the  strange  turn  of  affairs. 

"  You  can't  help  yourself,  my  boy,"  said  Horace 
Blagden,  kindly.  "  Sit  down  here  with  me  on  this 
bench.  It's  cool  here,  and  of  late  the  sun  appears  to 
be  affecting  me  oddly.  Eric,  your  aunt  and  I  are 
proud  of  you.  In  spite  of  ourselves,  we  have  always 
liked  you  and  Mary.  If  we  were  harsh  with  you,  it 
was  because  we  were  envious  —  even  jealous.  It  isn't 
so  hard  to  say  that,  either.  And,  believe  me,  there  was 
a  time  when  we  honestly  feared  for  your  future.  That 
is  why  — "  here  a  thin  smile  broke  on  his  lips, — "  we 
set  Mr.  Presbrey  on  you.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  us 
that.  And  yet,  don't  misunderstand  me,  I  believe  he 
did  you  more  good  than  you  will  admit.  Well,  you 
are  twenty-one.  You  are  going  to  be  a  credit  to  all 
of  us  —  living  and  dead.  Your  middle  name  is  Blag- 
den,  don't  forget  that.  I  say  we  are  proud  of  you. 
My  boy,  it  is  more  than  that  with  me.  I  am  fond  of 
you.  I  will  not  say  that  your  aunt  is  not  quite  as 
much  so  —  er,  ahem !  —  as  I  am.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  love  you  for  your  fairness,  your  gentleness,  your 
honesty.  You  are  a  good  boy,  Eric.  I  would  to  God 
you  were  my  son." 

Eric  was  dumbfounded.  An  older  and  keener  judge 
of  human  nature  would  not  have  been  deceived  into 
believing  that  a  generous  impulse  moved  Horace  to 
that  unhappy  lament.  It  was  an  exposition  of  the 


230  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

quintessence  of  selfishness.  He  was  thinking  only  of  a 
personal  gain  that  had  been  denied  him  in  Nature's 
distribution.  But  Eric  did  not  know  this.  He  was 
touched  by  the  unhappy  cry  from  the  great  man's  soul. 
A  sudden  desire  came  over  him  to  lift  the  dreadful  sus 
pense  that  was  hanging  over  his  uncle's  head. 

"  Uncle  Horace,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that 
may  make  it  easier  for  you  about  —  Chetwynd.  It 
has  been  a — " 

Mr.  Blagden  turned  on  him  coldly. 

"  Stop  right  there ! "  he  said  without  raising  his 
voice,  but  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  served  better  than 
a  shout  of  command.  "  You  are  not  to  mention  his 
name,  sir.  I  have  told  you  so  before.  There  is  noth 
ing  you  can  say  that  will  make  —  But  there !  I  am 
forgetting  myself.  We  will  resume  our  talk  concern 
ing  your  investments.  They  are  safe  and  sound,  and 
I  sincerely  hope  you  will  condescend  to  manage  them 
as  carefully  as  I  have  done,  as  your  guardian,  and  as 
your  grandfather  did  before  me.  Do  not  put  your 
fortune  into  the  hands  of  the  Jews.  It  is  safe  enough 
in  Corinth.  By  Jews  I  mean  the  tendrils  of  New 
York.  They  suck  up  gold  as  the  plants  suck  in  the 
dew.  I  hate  a  Jew.  Have  you  noticed  there  are  no  Jews 
in  Corinth?" 

"  A  Jew  couldn't  live  in  Corinth,  Uncle,"  said  Eric, 
who  hated  the  town.  "  He'd  starve  to  death." 

His  uncle  closed  one  eye  and  a  grim  smile  showed 
itself  faintly  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

**  I  fancy  he  would,"  said  he.  "  It  is  a  far  cry  from 
Corinth  to  New  York." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  leave  my  affairs  in  your  hands, 
Uncle,  just  as  they  have  been?  "  Eric  observed  after  a 
moment's  reflection.  **  I'd  only  ask  for  a  certain  por- 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER          231 

tion  of  the  income  —  enough  to  live  on,  you  see.     Is  it 

asking  too  much  of  you,  sir  ?  " 

Horace  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  knee.  "  I 
think  they  would  be  safer  in  my  hands  than  in  yours, 
my  boy.  At  least,  for  a  few  years.  I  will  continue 
to  look  after  them  for  you  on  the  condition  that  you 
agree  in  writing  to  —  er  —  ahem !  —  to  allow  me  abso 
lute  control  over  them." 

"  For  a  certain  length  of  time,  sir,"  said  Eric  stead 
ily.  "  I  believe  I  can  manage  for  myself  when  I  am  a 
little  older." 

"  Quite  right.  We'll  say  five  years.  You  will  be 
married  by  that  time,  I  daresay." 

Eric  blushed.  He  had  been  with  Joan  Bright  that 
very  morning. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  he  mused  evasively. 

And  so  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  Horace 
Blagden  was  to  have  control  of  Eric's  fortune  for  a 
term  of  years.  A  business  transaction,  pure  and  sim 
ple,  said  Mr.  Blagden,  in  which  he  proposed  to  serve 
as  agent  at  a  much  lower  rate  of  compensation  than 
Eric  could  hope  to  obtain  from  the  Jews.  It  was 
quite  a  satisfactory  arrangement  all  around,  for  Eric 
would  not  have  had  him  act  without  compensation. 

Eric  was  past  twenty-two  when  he  prepared  for  the 
Beaux  Arts.  He  was  to  be  abroad  for  at  least  two 
years.  Long  before  he  completed  his  work  at  Harvard, 
he  was  promised  a  commission  —  his  first  real  work  as 
an  architect  and  builder. 

Judge  Bright  was  to  be  his  first  client.  The  young 
man  was  to  design  and  build  for  him  a  new  and  mag 
nificent  home  in  Upper  Corinth,  a  structure  that  would 
cost  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars. 


232  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  I'd  sooner  entrust  the  j  ob  to  you,  Eric,  than  to 
any  of  those  chaps  in  Boston,  with  all  their  training 
and  prestige,"  said  the  Judge  to  the  surprised  and  over 
whelmed  under-graduate.  "  You've  got  ideas,  and 
that's  what  I  want.  Think  over  the  plans  while  you're 
in  Paris,  and,  in  case  you  write  to  Joan,  who  is  the  one 
you'll  have  to  please,  after  all,  discuss  them  with  her. 
She's  got  ideas,  too." 

Of  course,  when  the  news  got  abroad  in  Corinth  that 
a  boy  of  twenty-four  was  to  build  Judge  Bright's  pa 
latial  residence,  the  like  of  which  Corinth  had  never 
seen  except  as  a  trespasser,  there  was  a  general  sniff 
of  amazement.  More  than  one  of  the  selectmen  and 
practically  the  entire  congregation  of  the  First  Con 
gregational  Church  remonstrated  with  the  Judge,  admit 
ting  that  it  was  none  of  their  business,  of  course,  and 
declaring  that  they  liked  Eric,  and  all  that,  and  that 
he  would  be  a  great  architect  some  day,  but  for  heaven's 
sake,  et  cetera,  et  cetera. 

Joan  was  not  so  pessimistic. 

"  I'll  help  you  with  the  plans,  Eric,"  she  announced 
blissfully.  "  We  must  make  no  mistake.  It  must  be  per 
fect  in  every  respect.  Because,  don't  you  see,  you  and 
I  will  live  in  it  some  day." 

Eric  held  up  his  hands  in  horror.  "  Joan,  Joan ! 
Do  you  really  think  I'll  live  in  Corinth  after  I've  got  a 
good  start  in  the  world?  Do  you  think  I'd  bury  myself 
and  you  here  ?  " 

"  It's  a  nice  old  place,"  she  protested. 

"  So  is  the  world  a  nice  old  place.  We'll  go  out  and 
live  in  it  somewhere." 

"  But  papa's  building  this  house  for  me,"  she  la 
mented. 

He  looked  glum.     "  It's  a  deuce  of  a  dilemma.     I 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  233 

can't  give  you  up  and  I  won't  give  up  the  commis 
sion." 

"  Well,  why  should  we  borrow  trouble  ?  "  she  cried 
gaily.  "  Father  will  live  in  it  for  years  and  years. 
We  can  spend  some  of  our  time  with  him,  Eric.  We 
must.  And,  listen!  I  have  it.  When  we're  quite  old 
we  can  close  it  in  the  winter  and  let  it  in  the  summer ! " 

We  must  not  forget  Adam  Carr.  It  would  not  be 
fair  to  him,  if  we  pause  but  for  a  moment  to  consider 
his  own  capacity  for  not  forgetting.  There  were 
months  during  which  Eric  heard  nothing  of  the  man, 
then  suddenly  he  would  appear,  as  if  from  nowhere, 
calmly  to  resume  relations  as  if  they  had  separated  no 
longer  ago  than  the  night  before.  He  would  drop  in 
on  the  young  man  at  his  rooms  in  Cambridge,  always 
without  warning  but  never  by  any  chance  when  he  was 
away  or  when  he  had  company  there.  Or  he  would 
be  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  that  surrounded 
old  Jabez  Carr's  watch-house  above  Todville,  quite  as 
if  he  always  had  been  sitting  there,  smoking  a  pip» 
with  his  father  and  staring  intently  at  the  squirrels 
that  never  quite  got  over  being  afraid  to  approach 
him.  Or,  again,  he  would  come  upon  Eric  in  a  New 
York  thoroughfare,  never  saying  "  how-do-you-do," 
but  always  beginning  a  conversation  with  some  remark 
which  fitted  in  precisely  with  the  thoughts  that  were 
in  the  young  man's  mind  at  the  moment.  It  was  un 
canny,  and  yet  Eric  never  experienced  a  single  sensa 
tion  of  uneasiness  or  repulsion.  Somehow,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Adam  Carr  was  so  much  a  part  of  his  own 
existence  that  he  was  with  him  in  spirit  at  all  times, 
no  matter  how  great  the  distance  that  separated  their 
bodies. 

Once,  just  before  commencement  day,  Adam  appeared 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

on  the  campus.  He  came  up  from  behind  and  spoke 
to  Eric,  who  turned  without  surprise,  as  though  he  had 
been  aware  of  his  presence  all  the  time.  You  would 
have  thought  he  was  continuing  a  conversation  that 
had  not  been  diverted  for  a  moment,  much  less  by  a 

•  t 

lapse  of  five  months  or  more. 

"  I  guess  Horace  has  about  given  up  hope  of  Chet- 
wynd  ever  turning  up  to  be  forgiven,"  he  remarked, 
in  the  most  casual  manner. 

Again,  one  night  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  he  came 
upon  the  young  American  unexpectedly. 

"  What's  the  news  from  Corinth  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
out  preamble,  speaking  as  if  from  the  darkness.  Eric 
turned  to  find  his  queer  friend  standing  at  his  elbow, 
idly  gazing  at  the  gaudy  retinue  of  King  Sasowith  of 
Cambodia,  who  was  returning,  with  all  his  wives  and 
concubines,  from  Pre  Catalin,  where  he  had  been  the 
unit  of  attraction  since  the  sun  went  down. 

This  time,  Eric  confided  to  the  detective  that  the 
situation  was  "  getting  on  his  nerves." 

"  I'm  so  sorry  for  them  that  I've  half  a  mind  to  tell 
the  truth,  Mr.  Adam,"  he  said,  in  the  course  of  con 
versation.  "  Why,  they're  simply  grieving  their  hearts 
out.  It  would  be  the  greatest  blessing  in  the  world  if 
they  knew  that  he  could  never  come  back." 

Adam  chuckled.  "  I  suppose  you  think  old  Horace 
would  fall  on  your  neck  and  say  thank  you  kindly, 
eh?  Well,  he  wouldn't,  my  boy.  He'd  see  to  it  that 
you  fell  on  your  own  neck,  after  a  drop  of  five  or  six 
feet.  Be  patient.  Before  long  I'll  report  to  him  that 
CHetwynd  is  no  more.  It  may  interest  you  to  know 
that  I  drop  Horace  a  line  occasionally  to  let  him  know 
that  I'm  still  on  the  look-out  for  his  erring  off-spring. 
It's  getting  to  be  somewhat  of  a  tax  on  me,  writing 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  235 

these  letters.  I've  always  hated  to  write  letters.  One 
of  these  days, —  soon,  perhaps, —  I'll  get  so  tired  of 
it  that  Pll  put  an  end  to  our  one-sided  correspondence 
by  announcing  that  Chetwynd  is  dead.  Jumped  over 
board  just  as  I  was  about  to  nab  him  on  a  ship  some 
where  in  the  Atlantic.  Body  not  recovered.  See? 
That  will  end  it  all,  and  Horace  can  sleep  in  peace." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  do  it  soon,  Mr.  Adam." 

"  I'll  think  it  over." 

"  You  are  a  hard  man." 

"  But  not  so  hard  as  Horace  Blagden." 

"  He  is  changed." 

"Umph!" 

Regular  letters  came  to  Eric  from  his  sister  and 
from  Joan, —  airy,  newsy  ones  from  Mary,  loving  ones 
with  no  news  in  them  from  Joan.  The  greatest  piece 
of  news  that  came  from  Mary,  who  dealt  with  it  by  the 
page,  and  which  was  briefly  treated  by  Joan,  was  the 
staggering  information  that  the  congregation  had  asked 
for  Mr.  Presbrey's  resignation.  This  news  came  while 
Eric  was  in  Munich,  completing  a  brief  course  of  study 
in  that  city,  some  little  time  before  he  was  to  return  to 
America.  He  had  gone  first  to  Vienna  and  then  to 
Munich,  after  finishing  the  course  at  the  Beaux 
Arts. 

From  all  that  he  could  make  out  of  the  disconnected, 
almost  exuberant  letter,  Mr.  Presbrey  had  undertaken 
to  put  himself  and  God  over  and  above  Horace  Blagden 
in  the  management  of  the  church,  with  dire  conse 
quences  to  at  least  one  of  the  allies.  (I  am  quoting 
Mary  almost  literally.)  It  seemed  that  Mr.  Presbrey 
misconstrued  a  certain  listlessness  on  the  part  of  the 
great  man  of  Corinth;  he  took  it  that  Mr.  Blagden 
was  losing  his  force  as  a  dominant  leader,  that  he  no 


236  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

longer  held  the  reins  in  a  rigid  grip,  so  to  speak.  The 
worthy  pastor  took  heart.  He  assumed  an  independence 
that,  through  cultivation,  grew  rapidly  into  arrogance. 
He  openly  defied  Horace  at  a  time  when  it  seemed  most 
unlikely  that  that  gentleman  would  rise  from  the  ashes 
of  his  hopes  to  take  issue  with  him. 

The  controversy  had  a  trivial  beginning.  Mr.  Pres- 
brey  "  took  sides  "  in  a  choir  squabble.  The  soprano 
and  the  tenor,  it  appears,  quarrelled  over  the  proper 
way  to  interpret  a  duet  in  one  of  the  Easter  anthems. 
The  fact  that  it  was  a  contralto  and  bass  duet  doesn't 
seem  to  have  mattered,  although  you'd  think  it  would. 
The  bass  and  the  contralto  were  not  consulted.  They 
were  ignored.  Fortunately  for  the  congregation,  they 
sung  it  in  their  own  sweet  way  and  no  one  was  aware 
of  the  fact  that  the  anthem  was  ruthlessly  spoiled  until 
it  became  known  that  the  soprano  and  tenor  were  not 
on  speaking  terms  with  each  other. 

Then  the  pews  began  to  take  notice  of  the  dissen 
sion  in  the  loft.  Inside  of  a  fortnight,  the  entire  con 
gregation  was  involved.  Mr.  Presbrey  came  out  flat- 
footed  for  the  tenor,  who,  on  week-days,  gave  vocal 
lessons  in  respectable  support  of  a  teacher  in  the  Sun 
day  school, —  his  wife,  by  the  way, —  and  did  not  smoke 
nor  drink.  Moreover,  he  advised  his  pupils  to  abstain 
from  smoking  and  drinking.  Neither  habit  was  good 
for  the  voice,  he  explained.  The  soprano,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  a  good-looking  young  woman,  who  went  to 
Boston  twice  a  week  to  take  lessons,  and  who  spent  all 
she  earned  on  hats  and  things  to  bedeck  herself  with, 
so  that  the  men  in  the  pews  would  think  she  could  sing, 
though  their  wives  told  them  she  couldn't.  Also  she 
was  given  to  singing  secular  songs  of  a  rather  buoyant 
character  at  public  entertainments  in  the  opera  house, 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER 

and  she  had  spent  an  entire  season  in  the  chorus  of  the 
English  Opera  Company  in  Boston,  ostensibly  for  the 
training  it  was  said,  but,  according  to  certain  ladies 
in  the  congregation,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  some 
day  be  requested  to  appear  in  tights.  The  soprano 
was  conscious  of  a  very  good  figure. 

Well,  to  get  back  to  Mary's  letter:  Mr.  Blagden 
suddenly  threw  off  his  lethargy.  The  soprano,  it  so 
happened,  had  been  elevated  to  the  choir  on  his  recom 
mendation,  and  as  he  paid  the  weekly  salaries  of  the 
quartette  out  of  his  own  purse,  no  one  had  the  right 
to  object  to  his  selection,  although  nearly  every  woman 
in  the  church  knew  of  someone  better  qualified  than 
Miss  Smith.  And  so,  in  the  midst  of  the  petty  strife, 
Horace,  like  the  big  man  that  he  was,  snapped  his 
fingers  smartly  and  the  whole  congregation  scurried 
back  to  the  fold  in  a  most  amiable  way.  The  surprised 
Mr.  Presbrey  was  left  alone,  a  shorn,  stark  figure  to 
face  the  result  of  his  convictions. 

He  resolved  to  stand  his  ground.  The  soprano  must 
go.  Likewise  the  fiddler  who  came  in  occasionally  to  play 
obligates  to  her  solos.  The  First  Congregational 
Church  was  not  a  dance  house. 

To  the  intense  amazement  of  everyone,  he  bluntly 
announced  in  open  meeting  that  a  new  soprano  would 
be  engaged  for  the  ensuing  quarter.  Horace  could 
hardly  believe  his  ears. 

"  Miss  Smith  is  hired  by  the  year,  Mr.  Presbrey," 
he  said  stiffly,  arising  from  his  seat  in  Congregational- 
meeting. 

"  I  trust  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take  in  re 
minding  you,  Mr.  Blagden,  that  she  is  not  hired  by  the 
congregation,"  remarked  the  minister,  mildly. 

Horace  responded  with  his  wintry  smile.     "  By  the 


238  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

same  token,  she  should  be  dismissed  by  the  person  who 
hires  her." 

"  A  change  is  absolutely  necessary,  sir." 

Horace  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  **  I  under 
stand  they  need  a  soprano  in  the  Second  Church.  If 
you  insist  on  her  leaving  this  church,  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  recommend  her  for  the  position  there." 

The  threat  in  these  words  was  too  thinly  veiled  to 
escape  the  attention  of  the  members  who  filled  the  chapel. 
No  matter  how  gravely  they  had  divided  against  each 
other  in  the  choir  squabble,  they  became  a  unit  of  ap 
prehension  in  view  of  the  catastrophe  that  suddenly 
loomed  up  before  them. 

If  Miss  Smith  went  to  the  Second  Church,  there 
also  would  go  the  mighty  Blagdens.  And  then,  what 
would  become  of  the  mortgage  on  the  church? 

Someone  sprang  to  his  feet  and  suggested  that  the 
matter  be  deferred  for  a  fortnight  or  so.  Mr.  Pres- 
brey  had  the  temerity  to  say  the  Second  Church  could 
have  Miss  Smith  and  be  welcome  to  all  she  could  bring 
with  her. 

That  was  the  beginning.  It  went  from  bad  to  worse, 
Mr.  Presbrey  finally  resorting  to  personalities.  He 
said  that  it  was  time  to  throw  off  the  yoke.  Mr. 
Blagden,  he  explained,  was  scarcely  the  one  to  regulate 
the  policies  of  a  great  church  when  one  stopped  to 
consider  the  unhappy  results  of  his  efforts  to  bring 
up  his  own  son  in  Christ.  Moreover,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  intervention  of  himself  and  Mrs.  Presbrey,  those 
two  excellent  young  persons,  the  Midthornes,  might 
have  been  hectored  into  a  natural  defiance  of  all  the 
laws  of  God  and  man,  simply  because  the  home  in 
fluences  that  surrounded  them  were  not  calculated  to 
inspire  gentleness  of  spirit  or  contriteness  of  heart. 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  239 

With  an  equal  chance,  Chetwynd  could  have  been  saved, 
but  no!  The  parents  of  that  young  man  stood  be 
tween  him  and  the  true  agents  of  God.  They  set  them 
selves  over  against  their  closed  gates  and  said  to  God's 
minister :  "  Hands  off.  This  is  ours." 

At  this  juncture,  Horace,  pallid  as  a  ghost,  arose 
from  his  chair  and,  without  looking  to  right  or  left, 
stalked  from  the  chapel,  followed  by  his  wife,  whose 
whitened  head  was  bent  and  whose  limbs  tottered. 

The  next  day,  bright  and  early,  Horace  Blagden 
sent  out  a  command  to  the  officers  and  chief  men  of  the 
First  Church.  They  obeyed,  and  three  o'clock  found 
all  of  them  gathered  in  the  private  offices  of  the  banker. 
They  came  away  from  that  meeting  with  grave  faces 
and  troubled  hearts,  but  just  the  same,  they  affected 
no  sign  of  hesitancy  in  asking  Mr.  Presbrey  for  his 
resignation. 

The  minister  was  dumbfounded.  He  had  known  all 
along  that  he  was  kicking  against  the  pricks  but,  to 
quote  Uncle  Jabez  Carr,  "  he  didn't  know  there  was  a 
mule  waitin'  to  kick  back  when  he  was  a-lookin'  t'other 
way." 

Mr.  Presbrey  refused  to  resign.  A  great  hullabaloo 
ensued.  Corinth  had  never  known  the  like  of  it.  Tod- 
ville  chuckled,  and,  to  a  man,  came  out  for  Mr.  Pres 
brey.  The  same  spirit  inflated  the  narrow  by-ways 
along  the  water-front  until  they  were  ready  to  burst 
with  acclaim.  Notwithstanding  Mr.  Presbrey's  rigor 
ous  efforts  to  reform  that  section  of  town,  or  to  ob 
literate  it  entirely,  the  saloon-keepers,  the  brothel-house 
owners,  and  the  human  dregs  of  Corinth  joyfully  took 
sides  with  him  in  the  fight  against  Horace  Blagden, 
a  rather  anomalous  condition,  you  may  say,  but  per 
fectly  natural  if  you  pause  to  consider  the  relative  in- 


240  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

fluence  of  the  two  contenders.  Lower  Corinth  had  no 
fear  of  God,  but  it  slunk  away  from  Horace  Blagden. 
Therefore,  if  it  could  destroy  Horace,  there  would  be 
Nothing  to  fear. 

A  subsequent  letter  from  Mary  informed  Eric  that 
Mr.  Presbrey  was  to  open  a  school  for  boys  on  the  old 
Dexter  farm,  just  above  Corinth.  A  youngish  man 
from  Boston  was  likely  to  be  called  to  the  First  Church. 
He  had  preached  for  two  Sundays  on  trial  and  Uncle 
Horace  was  quite  enthusiastic  over  him. 

Few  and  far  between  were  the  letters  the  young  man 
received  from  his  uncle.  They  were  always  of  a  busi 
ness  nature,  absolutely  undeviating  in  that  respect. 
Drafts  from  dividends,  reports  on  properties,  and  mat 
ters  of  that  sort.  There  never  was  a  letter  from  Aunt 
Rena.  She  made  no  effort  to  be  friendly. 

But  one  day,  a  month  before  he  was  to  sail  for 
home,  Eric  received  from  his  uncle  a  letter  that  sorely 
disturbed  his  peace  of  mind.  It  revived  the  old  dread 
that  grew  up  with  him  from  childhood  and  which  had 
lain  dormant  for  the  past  few  years  —  the  dread  of 
the  prophecy  concerning  himself  and  Mary.  He  had 
killed  his  man.  That  much  of  it  was  fulfilled.  Now, 
what  of  Mary  ?  Was  she  to  fulfil  her  part  of  the  ugly 
prophecy  ? 

His  uncle,  after  apologising  for  calling  his  attention 
to  the  unpleasant  matter  to  follow,  wrote : 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  coming  home. 
It  is  not,  as  I  have  stated  before  in  this  letter,  my  cus 
tom  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  others.  Since  you 
and  Mary  reached  an  age  that  warranted  the  belief 
that  you  would  be  capable  of  thinking  soundly  for 
yourselves,  I  have  not  undertaken  to  obtrude  my  opin 
ions,  much  less  to  offer  criticism  of  any  act  or  impulse. 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  241 

You,  Eric,  I  knew  to  be  level-headed  and  steady.  I 
have  had  no  fears  for  you.  Regarding  Mary,  I  can 
not  speak  so  confidently.  She  is  wayward  and  she  is 
extremely  pretty.  The  combination  is  not  as  desirable 
as  it  may  seem,  as  viewed  from  the  vantage  point  of  an 
older  head.  We  have  tried  to  keep  the  path  she  trav 
erses  clean  and  free  from  contaminating  influences. 
But  she  sees  fit  to  resent  our  thoughtful  consideration. 
I  am  not  pretending  to  you,  even  delusively,  that  she 
has  overstepped  the  bounds  of  propriety  in  any  sense 
of  the  term.  I  believe  Mary  to  be  a  good  girl  and 
pure-minded. 

"  You  recall  young  Payson.  He  is  now,  as  you 
doubtless  know,  living  in  New  York,  where  he  has  a 
position  with  a  large  bond  house  —  a  responsible  po 
sition,  I  hear.  He  belongs  to  several  clubs  and  is  what 
is  termed  a  man  about  town.  The  influences  of  Corinth 
seem  to  have  deserted  him.  I  am  not  questioning  his 
integrity.  That  privilege  was  denied  me  long  ago.  I 
was  mistaken  about  him  once,  I  shall  not  fall  into  error 
again.  I  did  him  a  grievous  wrong.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  arrogant  demands  of  Adam  Carr,  I  should  have 
been  inclined  to  restore  him  to  his  position  in  the  bank. 
But  that  was  not  to  be  considered.  I  owe  nothing  to 
the  generosity  of  Adam  Carr.  He  is  my  enemy. 

"  Now  to  come  to  the  point.  Mary,  who  will  soon 
be  twenty-one,  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  this  young 
man.  He  visits  his  mother  here  regularly  and,  while 
I  cannot  ask  him  to  come  to  my  home,  Mary  sees  him 
frequently  and  in  a  clandestine  manner.  Your  aunt 
and  I  have  remonstrated,  but  to  no  avail.  She  goes 
about  with  him  when  the  occasion  presents  itself.  She 
rides  in  his  automobile  with  strange  men  and  women 
from  New  York, —  flashy  women  who  drink  and  smoke. 


£4£  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  she  seems  to  be  estranged  from 
her  friend  and  old-time  companion,  Joan  Bright.  The 
inference  is  plain.  Joan  does  not  approve  of  John 
Payson  and  his  friends.  We  see  but  little  of  her  in 
these  days.  A  few  nights  ago  Mary  came  home  from 
an  all-day  trip  —  on  a  Sabbath  —  and  your  aunt  dis 
tinctly  smelt  the  odour  of  wine  on  her  breath. 

"  Last  week  I  met  Payson  in  Corinth.  Realising 
that  it  was  better  for  everyone  concerned,  I  politely 
asked  him  to  come  to  my  house  to  see  Mary.  We 
would  be  glad  to  welcome  him  there.  He  calmly  in 
formed  me  that  he  would  not  put  foot  inside  my  gates, 
not  in  a  million  years,  or  something  to  that  effect. 
Whereupon  I  notified  him  that  he  could  not  continue 
his  attentions  to  my  niece  unless  he  were  manly  enough 
to  visit  her  in  the  home  of  her  protectors.  I  will  not 
repeat  what  he  said  in  response  to  this.  Suffice  to 
say,  he  insulted  me.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
he  would  see  Mary  when  he  pleased  and  as  he  pleased. 

"  I  do  not  like  this  young  man.  He  is  not  all  that 
he  should  be.  Judge  Bright,  once  his  friend,  now  says 
that  he  belongs  to  a  fast  set  in  New  York,  and  has 
been  spoiled  by  prosperity  and  adulation.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  he  means  to  marry  your  sister  if  she  will  have 
him.  He  knows  that  she  will  come  into  a  fortune  soon. 
He  is  a  reckless  speculator,  I  am  told.  I  fear  for  her 
interests  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

"  You  know  him.  I  leave  it  to  you  as  to  whether 
he  is  altogether  the  man  you  would  choose  to  be  the 
husband,  or  even  the  lover,  of  your  sister. 

"  In  bringing  this  matter  to  your  attention,  I  will 
go  a  bit  beyond  the  bounds  of  reticence.  Do  you  know 
his  history?  Do  you  know  why  Adam  Carr  takes  such 
a  deep  interest  in  him?  Do  you  know  whose  son  he  is? 


HORACE  WRITES  A  LETTER  243 

These  are  questions  that  will  confront  you.     I  could 
answer  all  of  them,  but  will  not. 

"  I  will  simply  say  that  he  is  not  to  be  thought  of 
as  a  husband  for  Mary,  and  in  saying  so  to  the  son 
of  Philip  Midthorne,  who  was  a  gentleman  born,  I  feel 
that  my  convictions  are  not  without  weight  in  your 
estimation. 

"As  I  said  before,  I  rejoice  that  you  are  coming 
home.  You,  and  you  alone,  can  influence  Mary.  She 
must  not  be  permitted  to  go  on  in  this  affair.  Do 
not  write  to  her  of  what  I  am  telling  you.  Her  re 
sentment  might  lead  her  to  do  the  very  thing  we  are 
seeking  to  prevent  by  diplomacy  and  tact.  She  is 
lovable  and  she  adores  you.  You  can  save  her,  Eric. 

"  Jack  Payson  will  do  all  that  he  can  to  hurt  me.  He 
has  never  forgiven  me.  He  would  take  her,  honourably 
or  otherwise,  merely  to  have  the  chance  to  gloat  over 
me. 

"  Your  devoted  uncle, 

"  HORACE  BLAGDEN." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

UET    THERE   BE   LIGHT 

WHEN  Eric  came  down  the  gang  plank  at  the  pier  in\ 
New  York  City,  the  one  familiar  face  that  met  his  gaze 
belonged  to  Adam  Carr.  The  square,  stubborn  figure 
of  the  detective  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  slip,  and  no 
amount  of  jostling  disturbed  it. 

"  I've  got  news  for  you,"  was  his  greeting,  as  Eric 
extended  his  hand. 

"  And  I  have  a  question  or  two  to  put  to  you,  Mr. 
Adam,"  said  the  young  man  promptly. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  to  ask  me  about  Jack  Payson," 
observed  Adam  as  they  moved  off  toward  the  "  M  " 
section.  "  I  thought  you'd  be  wanting  to  get  at  the 
facts.  First,  let's  hustle  your  stuff  through  these  fel 
lows  here.  I've  got  it  fixed  so  that  you  won't  be  de 
layed.  Little  pull." 

"  Thanks.     What  is  your  news  ?  " 

"  Your  sister  is  in  New  York." 

"  In  New  York  ?  How  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  Is 
she  here  to  meet  me?  " 

"  Not  exactly  that.  I  think  she's  here  to  avoid  meet 
ing  you." 

Eric  turned  icy  cold.  People  stared  at  him  as  he 
reached  blindly  for  the  support  of  one  of  the  posts. 

"  For  God's  sake  — "  he  began  hoarsely,  and  could 
go  no  farther.  His  eyes  asked  all  the  questions  that 
were  necessary. 

"  I've  got  a  cab  outside.     We'll  talk  about  it  as  we 

drive  up.     Be  calm.     Everything's  all  right  with  her, 

244 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  £45 

I'm  sure.  She's  staying  with  friends.  Old  Horace 
didn't  know  how  to  handle  her,  that's  all.  She's  like  a 
spirited,  thoroughbred  horse.  He  went  a  step  too  far 
into  her  private  affairs." 

"  You  mean,  she's  —  she's  left  Corinth  —  left  my 
uncle's  house?  "  cried  Eric. 

"  She  had  to.  Any  girl  of  spirit  would  have  done 
the  same." 

"  But  why  did  you  say  she  was  here  to  avoid  meeting 
me?  What  is  wrong?  What  has  she  done?  " 

Destiny!  Fore-ordination!  The  promises  of  their 
childhood !  All  of  these  rushed  across  his  mind  in  horrid 
review.  His  heart  was  like  lead. 

"  Oh,  it  was  wrong  to  leave  her,"  he  groaned,  before 
the  other  could  reply.  "  I  am  to  blame  if  anything  has 
happened  — " 

"  People  are  staring  at  you,  Eric.  Pull  yourself  to 
gether.  I  guess  I  was  too  sudden.  It's  a  fault  I  have. 
You've  got  a  wrong  impression,  I  see.  She's  all  right. 
Don't  worry.  I  should  have  said  she  wanted  to  avoid 
meeting  you  in  Corinth.  She's  done  with  Corinth  for 
ever.  Here's  the  inspector." 

Half  an  hour  later,  they  were  on  their  way  up  town 
in  a  hansom.  A  fine  drizzle  was  blowing  in  their  faces 
as  they  leaned  back  in  the  seat,  neither  of  them  caring 
to  have  the  glass  lowered. 

"  Now  I'll  answer  your  questions  about  Jack  Pay- 
son,"  said  Adam  quietly. 

"  I  want  to  know  about  Mary.     What's  happened  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  eloped  a  week  or  ten  days  ago.  She's  of 
age  now  and  can  do  as  she  pleases." 

"  In  heaven's  name,  why  did  she  leave  Corinth?  What 
is  she  doing  in  New  York  ?  Where  is  she  — " 

"  Give  me  time,  my  lad.     Horace  objects  to  Jack 


246  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Payson,  that's  the  sum  and  substance  of  it.  He's  never 
got  over  the  fact  that  he  did  the  boy  a  wrong.  You 
know  and  he  knows  that  Jack  was  not  guilty  of  robbing 
the  bank,  but  Horace  hates  him  simply  because  he  didn't 
do  it.  Jack's  all  right.  He  has  done  well  in  New 
York.  Godsend  to  him  to  get  out  of  Corinth.  He  wants 
to  marry  your  sister.  Hold  on !  Don't  fly  off  the 
handle  now.  He  may  not  have  as  much  blue  blood  in 
him  as  you  have,  but  he's  got  plenty  of  honest  red 
blood,  and  he's  a  man,  in  spite  of  Horace.  He's  square 
and  he's  good  enough  for  any  woman,  if  you  can  say 
that  of  any  man.  He — " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  him.  Who  was  his 
father?  Does  anyone  know?  Do  you  know?" 

Adam's  eyes  narrowed  ever  so  slightly,  and  he  was 
slow  in  replying. 

"  Be  blunt  about  it.  You  want  to  know  if  he  was 
bora  —  straight.  That's  it,  isn't  it?  " 

"  That's  it." 

"  If  his  mother  was  straight?  " 

"  Yes.  And  why  you  have  always  been  so  deeply  in 
terested  in  him,"  blurted  out  Eric. 

"  That's  something  I  cannot  answer,"  said  Adam, 
looking  straight  ahead. 

"  You  mean  you  won't,"  cried  Eric. 

"  Haven't  I  always  been  fair  with  you?  "  demanded 
the  older  man.  "  Can't  you  take  my  word  for  it  that 
he  is  all  right,  without  demanding  explanations  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  got  to  know." 

"  Then,  my  boy,  you'll  have  to  get  your  information 
from  someone  else." 

"  By  heaven,  Adam  Carr,  if  he  tries  to  marry  my; 
sister,  I'll  kill  him !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,  Eric." 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  247 

'*  I  mean  it.     Curse  him,  I  won't  have  my  sister  — " 

Adam  turned  on  him,  with  the  first  touch  of  coldness 
the  young  man  had  ever  known  him  to  reveal. 

"  Stop  right  there.  Consider  well  before  you  con 
demn  any  man,  or  any  man's  mother."  There  was  a 
clear  and  unmistakable  meaning  in  his  words.  Eric 
flushed  and  then  turned  deathly  pale. 

"  Stop  the  cab ! "  he  said,  hoarse  with  a  sudden  rage 
toward  the  speaker.  "  Let  me  out,  I  say." 

Adam  smiled,  a  trifle  wearily,  but  with  a  certain  wist 
ful  gentleness  that  did  not  fail  to  appeal  to  the  hot 
headed  young  traveller.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief 
and  cleared  the  moisture  from  his  brow  —  moisture  that 
might  not  have  been  left  there  by  the  fine,  penetrating 
drizzle. 

"  Are  you  about  to  forget,  Eric,  that  we  are  friends  ?  " 
he  asked  quietly.  "  Forgive  me  for  what  I  said  just 
now.  It  was  the  only  way  to  bring  you  to  time,  as 
the  saying  goes.  We'll  never  allude  to  it  again.  Now, 
if  you'll  sit  there  quietly,  I'll  tell  you  about  Mary. 
It's  quite  natural  that  she  should  admire  John  Payson. 
He's  an  ideal  type  of  American.  He's  good  looking 
and  he  does  things.  They  say  that  of  President  Roose 
velt:  he  does  things.  They  don't  say  he's  good  look 
ing,  but  that's  of  no  consequence."  He  smiled  in  his 
queer,  mirthless  way.  "  She  turned  to  Jack  when  Hor 
ace  turned  against  him.  That  was  quite  natural,  too. 
Mrs.  Blagden  maintains  to  this  day,  with  a  sort  of 
secret  way  of  impressing  her  views  without  actually  ut 
tering  them  in  so  many  words,  that  young  Payson  was 
really  at  the  bottom  of  the  bank  robberies,  and  that  I 
put  up  the  job  on  her  son  for  reasons  of  my  own. 
What's  more,  she  believes  that  Jack  knows  something 
of  Chetwynd's  whereabouts.  A  mother's  hallucination, 


£48  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

or  something  of  that  sort.  Well,  when  Jack  and  Mary 
met  each  other  a  year  or  two  ago, —  I  introduced  them 
at  my  daddy's  gate-house  —  she  was  a  bit  cold  toward 
him.  You  see,  she  had  always  been  a  lady,  right  from 
the  day  of  her  birth,  and  Jack  had  only  been  a  man 
from  the  day  of  his  coming  into  the  world.  It  takes  a 
lady  a  long  time  to  overcome  a  prejudice  against  the 
kind  of  a  chap  she  has  been  brought  up  to  consider 
nothing  but  a  man. 

"  I  believe  your  friend,  Miss  Bright,  has  never  quite 
come  to  that  way  of  looking  at  things.  She  doesn't 
know  that  it  is  the  man  in  you  that  she  admires ;  she 
thinks  it  is  the  gentleman.  But  that's  beside  the  ques 
tion.  I  must  be  getting  old,  I  talk  so  much. 

"  In  course  of  time,  Mary  came  to  see  something  she 
liked  in  Jack.  He  is  ten  years  older  than  she  and  he's 
had  hard  knocks  enough  to  make  him  seem  even  older 
than  that  to  her.  He  — " 

"You  introduced  him  to  her?"  broke  in  Eric  hotly. 
"  You  arranged  it,  I'll  stake  my  head." 

"  Well,  hardly  that,"  said  Adam  easily.  "  It  just 
happened.  Fate,  I  daresay.  She  wasn't  long  in  find 
ing  that  he'd  made  good  in  New  York.  Some  of  his 
friends  happen  to  be  actresses.  That  was  enough  to 
condemn  him  in  Corinth.  They  don't  like  actresses 
there.  They  like  'em  in  the  phonograph,  but  not  in  the 
flesh.  Well,  Jack  has  a  lot  of  fine  friends  in  New  York 
who  are  not  actresses,  but  who  admire  these  stage  women 
for  what  they  are  —  bright,  clever,  true  women  who 
fight  just  as  shy  of  evil  as  their  sisters  do  in  Corinth,  but 
without  going  to  prayer-meeting  once  a  week  for  in 
structions. 

"  Horace  Blagden   couldn't  believe   his    senses.     He 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  249 

stepped  in  as  Mary's  guardian  and  told  her  to  drop 
Jack  and  his  well-dressed  friends.  I  don't  blame  him 
altogether,  mind  you.  He  thought  he  was  acting  for 
her  best  interests.  I  suppose  he  has  written  you 
about  all  this.  They  tell  me  he  isn't  as  narrow  as  he 
used  to  be.  If  he  could  forget  that  he  is  Horace  Blag- 
den  for  a  little  while,  he  might  be  a  wiser  man.  I'll  say 
that  for  him,  even  though  I  despise  him. 

"  He  figures  that  Jack  is  a  schemer,  that  he  means 
to  marry  Mary,  and  —  above  all  —  that  he  wants  to 
get  hold  of  her  money.  Well,  a  few  weeks  ago,  as  you 
know,  she  became  of  age.  He  wasn't  satisfied  with  her 
promise  to  leave  her  money  affairs  in  his  hands,  just  as 
you  have  done,  but  he  must  regulate  everything  else 
for  her.  She  wouldn't  sign  an  agreement,  so  he  took  it 
to  mean  that  sooner  or  later  she'd  let  Jack  make  other 
investments  for  her.  He  put  his  foot  down  hard  a 
fortnight  ago.  Said  that  Jack  was  the  illegitimate  son 
of  someone  and  not  fit  to  keep  company  with  her.  Mary 
couldn't  stand  it.  She  eloped  with  Jack." 

"  Eloped !  "  groaned  Eric.     "  Are  they  —  married?  " 

"  No,"  said  Adam  complacently. 

"  The  infernal  scoundrel ! "  raged  Eric,  beating  his 
clenched  fists  together.  "  And  you  try  to  defend  him ! 
Oh,  my  poor  little  Mary !  My  poor  — " 

"  It  wasn't  that  kind  of  an  elopement,"  explained 
Adam.  "  She  asked  him  to  take  her  to  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Kendrick  in  New  York  —  a  mutual  friend,  and  a  very 
noble  woman.  He  did  it,  that's  all.  She's  there  now, 
and  my  father  has  a  letter  for  you  at  the  gate-house, 
explaining  everything.  You  needn't  worry.  She  won't 
come  to  harm  —  not  at  the  hands  of  Jack  Payson.  He 
wants  to  marry  her.  That  ought  to  satisfy  you.  Men 


250  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

don't  wrong  the  women  they  really  want  to  marry.  It's 
not  in  the  game.  They  wrong  the  ones  they  don't  want 
to  marry." 

"  I  must  see  her  at  once.  Where  does  this  Mrs.  Ken- 
drick  live?  Hey,  cabby!  Pull  up  a  minute.  Tell  him 
where  to  go,  Mr.  Adam." 

The  young  man  was  shivering  with  the  ague  of  dread 
and  excitement. 

"  We  will  go  to  the  Holland  House,  and  then  you'll 
take  the  evening  train  for  Corinth,"  said  Adam  dic- 
tatorially.  Eric's  energetic  protests  met  with  a  calm 
stolidity  on  the  part  of  his  friend.  "  Jack  Pay  son  will 
meet  you  at  my  father's  cottage  in  the  morning,  after 
you  have  read  Mary's  letter.  It  is  his  place  to  put  the 
matter  squarely  before  you,  as  a  man  should.  We 
talked  it  over  this  morning.  He  says  that  you  may 
demand  satisfaction  from  him,  and  he's  square  enough 
to  meet  you  face  to  face  before  you  go  to  Mary  with 
reproaches." 

Nothing  would  move  him. 

Eric,  in  a  fever  of  impatience,  took  the  evening  train 
for  Corinth,  accompanied  by  Adam  Carr. 

"  If  any  harm  has  come  to  Mary,  I'll  kill  1  Yes,  Mr. 
Adam,  I'll  kill ! "  he  repeated  over  and  over  again. 

"  I'm  not  saying  Mary  did  a  wise  thing  in  running 
away  like  this,"  admitted  Adam.  "  It  has  caused  a  lot 
of  talk, —  you  might  say  scandal.  You  know  the  kind 
of  women  there  are  in  Corinth.  They're  bound  to  say 
nasty  things.  But  she  would  do  it.  The  only  decent 
thing  Jack  Pay  son  could  do  was  to  see  her  through 
with  it.  He  loves  her.  He  couldn't  do  anything  else." 

Eric  shut  his  jaws  with  a  snap.  "  She's  got  me  to 
reckon  with,"  he  grated.  "  She'll  come  back  to  Corinth 
or  I'll  know  the  reason  why." 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  251 

4<  She'll  come  back  if  you  insist,  but  I  wouldn't  insist 
too  vigorously,  if  I  were  you,'*  was  Adam's  sententious 
advice. 

The  next  morning,  after  having  listened  for  an  hour 
or  more  to  the  bitter  declamations  of  his  uncle  and  aunt, 
Eric  left  the  breakfast  table  to  redeem  his  promise  to 
Joan.  He  had  promised  to  call  her  up  on  the  telephone 
the  instant  he  arrived  in  Corinth.  Other  distracting 
events  had  put  this  tender  obligation  out  of  his  thoughts. 
A  servant  in  the  Bright  home  informed  him  that  Miss 
Joan  was  out  of  town  and  would  not  return  until  the 
end  of  the  following  week.  He  was  annoyed  and  puz 
zled  by  this  extraordinary  piece  of  news.  Joan,  in  her 
last  letter,  had  said  she  would  be  fairly  hanging  over 
the  'phone,  waiting  to  hear  his  dear  voice. 

His  appointment  with  John  Payson  was  for  eleven 
o'clock.  Adam  Carr  had  arranged  it,  apparently  with 
out  consulting  the  New  Yorker. 

Eric  had  been  at  once  struck  by  the  changes  in  his 
uncle  and  aunt.  They  were  white  of  hair,  grey  of  face, 
and  more  than  ordinarily  smileless.  Signs  of  deep  suf 
fering  lay  in  their  eyes.  Heavy  lines  marked  the  gaunt, 
ascetic  face  of  his  uncle ;  his  shoulders  drooped  far  more 
than  his  rigid,  upright  figure  might  have  suggested. 
He  looked  a  man  of  seventy-five,  instead  of  sixty-three 
or  four.  Mrs.  Blagden's  hair  was  perfectly  white.  A 
strange,  sad  sweetness, —  the  reflection  of  far-off  girl 
hood  gentleness, —  had  come  into  her  face.  Her  voice 
was  soft,  and  charged  with  a  curiously  vibrant  note, 
altogether  unfamiliar  to  Eric,  whose  strongest  recollec 
tion  was  of  sharp,  incisive  tones  that  bore  no  relation  to 
love. 

She  moved  with  a  certain  listlessness,  and  yet  there  was 
ever  the  underlying  suggestion  of  alertness,  of  eager- 


252  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

ness.  He  observed  that  she  never  passed  the  grim  old 
hall  clock  without  glancing  at  its  face;  for  an  instant 
her  manner  suggested  the  attitude  of  one  listening, — 
just  a  flitting  impression, —  as  if  she  were  trying  to 
catch  a  sound  not  distinguishable  to  other  ears.  Her 
sombre  black  dress  bore  no  touch  of  colour  save  the  ivory 
cross  that  hung  suspended  from  her  neck  at  the  end  of  a 
string  of  heavy  jet  beads. 

He  had  told  them  that  he  did  not  hold  them  responsi 
ble  for  the  step  Mary  had  taken,  and  they  seemed 
grateful.  Something  in  the  manner  of  these  uncompro 
mising  natures  gave  him  to  understand  that  they  had 
softened,  at  least  toward  him;  that  the  steel  edges  had 
worn  away;  that  wistful,  hungry  hearts  were  being  laid 
bare  that  he  might  see  them  plainly  and  forget  not  to 
touch  them  gently. 

"  I  shall  bring  her  back,  Aunt  Rena,"  he  had  said. 

"  She  will  be  welcome,  Eric,"  said  his  aunt,  and  he 
was  surprised  by  the  simple  appeal  that  went  with  the 
words.  "  We  acted  as  we  thought  best.  If  we  were 
wrong, —  well,  we  cannot  always  be  right,  try  as  we 
may." 

"  They  tell  me  that  Joan  is  away  from  home,"  he 
said,  on  his  return  from  the  telephone. 

His  uncle  was  standing  at  the  window,  looking  out 
over  the  wet  lawn,  a  gaunt,  frail  figure,  poignant  with 
reserve. 

Horace  turned.  "  She's  off  on  a  cruise  with  young 
Sallonsby  and  his  party." 

"  Sallonsby?  You  don't  mean  the  Sallonsbys  of  Bos 
ton?  " 

"  Paul  Sallonsby.  I  think  you  knew  him  at  Cam 
bridge.  He  has  come  into  a  fortune.  His  father  died 
a  year  and  a  half  ago,  leaving  two  millions  and  over 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  253 

to  each  of  his  children.  Paul  has  been  seeing  a  great 
deal  of  Joan,  I  hear.  He  has  taken  a  party  to  the  West 
Indies." 

"  They  left  last  week,"  added  Mrs.  Blagden.  "  His 
yacht  was  in  the  harbour  here  for  two  days." 

Eric  was  dazed.  He  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 
Joan  had  not  mentioned  young  Sallonsby  in  any  of  her 
letters,  nor  had  she  spoken  of  a  contemplated  cruise. 
It  was  more  than  strange  that  she  should  go  away  at 
the  very  time  he  was  expected  home.  A  dull  pain  as 
sailed  him.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Was  it  possible  —  but 
no!  She  could  not  be  anything  but  constant.  He 
could  swear  by  the  pure  light  in  her  eyes.  And  yet,  she 
had  gone  away. 

Vaguely  dismayed  —  in  addition  to  the  depression 
that  was  already  upon  him, —  he  wandered  up  and  down 
the  hall,  through  the  dim  parlour  and  sitting-room, 
torn  by  many  emotions.  The  prim  rooms,  so  unlike 
those  to  which  he  had  become  accustomed  in  Paris  and 
elsewhere,  seemed  to  be  narrower,  more  confined  than 
before  he  went  away.  They  appeared  to  shrink  in  size, 
even  as  he  stood  in  them,  the  walls  drawing  closer  about 
him,  the  ceiling  coming  down  as  if  driven  by  a  great, 
slow-moving  press.  An  atmosphere  of  oppressiveness 
surrounded  him.  All  the  brightness  seemed  to  have 
been  swept  out  of  life.  Something  dead  pervaded  the 
house,  from  top  to  bottom. 

The  same  damask  sofas  and  chairs  stood  in  their  ac 
customed  places  in  the  parlour.  The  brussels  carpet, 
with  the  big,  well-remembered  pattern,  lay  beneath  his 
feet,  as  new  as  the  day  it  was  first  put  down,  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  The  old  portraits  and  oil  paintings  still 
hung  suspended  by  silken  picture  cords,  relics  of  an  ob 
solete  grandeur.  Over  by  the  window  which  looked  out 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

upon  the  front  yard  and  the  street  at  the  bottom  of  the 
knoll,  stood  a  chair  that  somehow  was  out  of  place  in  his 
memory.  It  was  drawn  up  close  to  the  side  of  the  win 
dow,  and  faced  the  light  though  screened  from  outer 
view  by  the  heavy,  immaculate  lace  curtains  that  always 
had  been  there. 

Immaculate?  He  crossed  over,  struck  by  an  unusual 
aspect.  One  of  the  curtains  hung  straight  and  prim, 
but  the  other,  next  to  the  chair,  was  slightly  crumpled, 
even  soiled  along  the  inner  edge. 

A  careful  hand  had  been  drawing  it  aside  for  years ! 
Every  day  someone  had  sat  in  that  chair,  peering  be 
tween  the  curtains  —  looking  for  someone  who  never 
came. 

The  well-remembered  scent  of  a  perfume  affected  by 
his  aunt  in  deference  to  her  distant  New  York  incarna 
tion,  came  faintly  to  his  nostrils  as  he  leaned  over  the 
chair.  How  many  times  had  she  drawn  that  curtain 
aside  to  look  down  into  the  winding,  tree-lined  street  ? 

He  turned  away  with  a  shudder,  and  left  the  room, 
hurrying  out  upon  the  drenched  lawn,  where  the  leaves 
of  the  preceding  autumn  still  lay  dank  and  brown  be 
neath  stark  and  leafless  trees  to  which  the  breath  of 
spring  had  not  yet  come.  He  stopped  at  the  lower  gate 
to  look  back  at  the  grey  house  he  had  left. 

How  small  and  insignificant  it  was,  and  how  desolate ! 
The  Giant's  Castle!  He  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  pity 
for  it.  It  represented  all  that  was  big  in  Corinth, 
and  yet  how  it  had  shrunk  since  he  had  last  looked 
upon  it. 

And  it  was  still  called  the  Giant's  Castle  by  imag 
inative  small  folk,  and  it  was  a  dreadful  place  where 
ogres  lived! 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  Mary  left  it,"  he  said,  half 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  255 

aloud,  the  bleakness  of  the  view  wringing  the  confes 
sion  from  his  soul. 

He  was  half  an  hour  ahead  of  time  at  Jabez  Carr's 
cottage.  The  old  man,  as  dry  and  shrivelled  as  a  but 
ternut  "hull,"  greeted  him  with  great  joy  and  a  new 
garrulousness  that  proclaimed  his  eighty  odd  years  in  a 
way  pitifully  plain.  The  old  man  was  not  long  in  get 
ting  to  the  subject  that  pleased  him  best  to  discuss:  the 
great  religious  upheaval  in  Corinth's  First  Congrega 
tional  Church.  He  had  views  on  the  subject,  and  he 
vented  them  with  many  a  joyous  cackle.  Jabez  had  not 
been  inside  the  doors  of  a  church  in  sixty  years,  and  he 
had  no  settled  ideas  as  to  religion  aside  from  a  vague 
recognition  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  yet  to  have  heard  him 
on  this  wet  March  morning  as  he  sat  close  upon  the  little 
stove  in  his  cottage  you  might  have  thought  that  the 
burden  of  all  Christianity  rested  upon  his  shoulders. 

Eric  sat  by  the  tiny  window,  watching  the  lane.  At 
last  he  started  up  and  his  eyes  narrowed.  Adam  Carr, 
had  he  been  present,  would  have  noted  the  sudden 
clenching  of  his  hands  and  the  squaring  of  the  jaw. 

John  Pay  son  was  coming  through  the  gate,  a  strong, 
well-put-up  figure  of  a  man,  trimly  dressed  and  brisk. 

Ignoring  Jabez,  who  was  in  the  midst  of  an  eloquent 
appeal  to  God  to  witness  his  absolute  lack  of  prejudice 
in  the  Blagden-Presbrey  controversy,  Midthorne  flung 
open  the  door  and  strode  out  into  the  open.  He  wanted 
to  meet  his  man  where  it  was  wide  and  free. 

Payson  came  on,  his  eyes  expressing  recognition,  but 
not  the  faintest  sign  of  confidence. 

Eric  stopped  short  and  was  staring  hard  at  the  face 
of  the  new-comer,  fascinated  by  what  he  saw  there.  For 
weeks  he  had  been  trying  to  recall  something  he  had 
overlooked  in  John  Payson's  features.  Now  the  thing 


256  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

he  had  always  missed  recognising  forced  itself  upon  him 
with  such  a  positive  clearness  that  he  was  shocked  be 
yond  expression. 

The  clean-cut,  aggressive  face  of  the  young  man  was 
singularly  like  that  of  Adam  Carr,  with  the  distinction 
that  it  was  not  so  coarsely  moulded,  and  far  from  sinis 
ter.  The  grey  eyes  were  set  far  back  in  the  head  and  the 
cheek  bones  were  high  and  broad,  as  in  the  case  of  Adam 
Carr.  The  lower  part  of  the  face  was  not  so  broad  nor 
so  resolute,  but  still  there  was  a  singular  resemblance  to 
the  jaw  and  the  chin  of  the  detective.  Pay  son's  counte 
nance  was  frank  and  open,  full  of  power  and  virility, 
while  Adam's  was  heavy,  expressionless,  almost  sphinx- 
like  in  its  immobility.  The  resemblance,  startling  as  it 
was,  ended  with  the  face.  The  younger  man  was  tall, 
supple,  graceful ;  Adam  was  stocky,  Samsonian. 

Eric  had  not  seen  the  ex-teller  in  five  or  six  years,  but 
he  was  able,  in  this  instant,  to  call  up  vague,  haunting 
impressions  that  had  always  puzzled  him  when  he  met 
him  face  to  face.  He  had  never  known  him  well.  Pay- 
son  was  older  than  he  by  half  a  dozen  years. 

Observing  the  peculiar  look  in  Midthorne's  eyes,  Pay- 
son  stopped  when  some  six  or  eight  paces  away.  His 
own  narrowed  slightly. 

"  Am  I  an  object  of  curiosity  to  you,  Mr.  Mid- 
thorne?"  he  asked  quietly.  Eric  started.  The  tone, 
the  absence  of  inflection,  the  very  manner  of  putting  the 
question  was  so  familiar  to  him  that  he  experienced  the 
actual  sensation  of  awe. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  levelly ;  "  an  object  of  great  curi 
osity." 

"  Perhaps  animosity." 

"  Yes,  distinctly  so." 

Payson  came  forward.     "  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Eric. 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  257 

I  hope  to  overcome  that  feeling.  May  I  ask :  why  this 
aversion  ?  " 

Eric  surveyed  him  coldly.  "  I  don't  believe  it  is  nec 
essary  for  me  to  answer  that  question." 

"  Permit  me  to  disagree  with  you.  If  I  have  done 
anything  to  deserve  your  harsh  opinion  of  me,  I  desire 
to  know  what  it  is  and  where  I  stand  before  taking  up 
the  question  that  means  so  much  to  both  of  us." 

"  We  can  settle  that,  Mr.  Payson,  without  exchang 
ing  confidences,"  said  Eric,  white  to  the  lips.  "  You 
have  acted  like  an  infernal  scoundrel  in  enticing  my  — " 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  the  other.  "  I  did  not 
come  to  insult  you  nor  to  be  insulted  by  you.  Scoundrel 
is  a  hard  word.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  recall  it  now,  but 
I'll  expect  you  to  do  it  some  day.  You  — " 

"  Has  Adam  Carr  told  you  what  I  intend  to  do  to 
you  if  you  do  not  keep  away  from  my  sister?  "  de 
manded  Eric  hotly,  ignoring  the  taunt. 

"  He  has.  You  intend  to  kill  me,  I  believe.  I  think 
I  have  some  right  to  inquire  why  you  take  that  attitude 
toward  a  man  who  has  every  honourable  intention  in  the 
world  — " 

"  Honourable !  Do  you  call  it  honourable  to  entice  a 
young  girl  away  from  the  home  of  her  natural  protec 
tors,  to  throw  her  among  fast  women  and  men,  to  offer 
her  wines,  and  to  —  to  compromise  her?  " 

"  I  have  done  none  of  these  things,  Mr.  Midthorne, 
as  you  will  discover  when  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
go  beyond  the  accounts  given  by  the  natural  pro 
tectors  you  mention.  This  interview  promises  to  be 
painful.  We  will  cut  it  short.  My  object  in  coming 
here  is  to  inform  you  that  Mary  has  promised  to  be 
my  wife." 

"What!     Why,  you  miserable— " 


258  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  One  moment,  please.  She  is  quite  as  dear  to  me  as 
she  is  to  you.  I  did  not  ask  her  to  leave  her  home.  She 
went  of  her  own  free  will.  You  say  that  I  have  placed 
her  among  fast  women  and  men.  If  you  choose  to 
judge  my  friends  by  the  standards  of  Corinth,  they  are 
fast.  I  think,  however,  you  may  have  seen  enough  of 
the  world  to  know  that  a  snail  would  be  swift  in  Corinth. 
My  friends  are  now  her  friends.  They  will  be  yours, 
too,  I  hope,  Mr.  Midthorne,  and  you  will  have  reason 
to  be  proud  of  them  —  just  as  I  am.  If  she  has  ever 
tasted  wine  in  her  life,  I  am  not  aware  of  the  fact.  If 
her  association  with  me  has  compromised  her,  I  am  un 
able  to  define  what  you  may  be  pleased  to  call  '  hon 
ourable  intentions.'  I  owe  you  certain  explanations, 
that  is  all.  But,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  sir,  I  owe  you  no 
apologies,  either  for  myself  or  Mary.  My  record  is 
clean,  my  conscience  clear.  There  is  no  more  for  me 
to  say.  I  persuaded  your  sister  to  grant  me  the  privi 
lege  of  seeing  you  first,  Mr.  Midthorne.  Mr.  Carr  has 
already  assured  me  of  your  antipathy.  You  came  here 
to  meet  me.  I  thank  you.  My  duty  was  plain.  Your 
first  reproaches  should  fall  on  me,  not  on  her.  I  did  not 
expect,  however,  to  be  called  an  infernal  scoundrel.  It 
is  rather  unusual,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Eric  had  been  staring  at  him  intently  through  this 
long,  level  speech.  It  was  being  borne  in  upon  him, 
much  against  his  will,  that  Payson  was  doing  the  hon 
ourable  thing,  and  that  he  had  put  himself  in  a  most  un 
enviable  position  by  forgetting  his  own  dignity. 

"  I  spoke  in  heat,"  he  said,  but  somewhat  doggedly. 
"  I  can  only  think  of  Mary  as  a  —  well,  as  a  child. 
She  knows  nothing  of  men." 

"  Nor  do  you,  I  fear,"  said  Payson  coolly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  259 

"  A  man  isn't  likely  to  stand  being  called  a  scoundrel 
impunity." 

"Is  that  a  threat?" 

"  I  leave  it  to  you.  Suppose  I  were  to  call  you  an 
infernal  scoundrel,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  so  to  speak. 
Would  you  accept  it  amiably  ?  " 

Eric  stiffened.  The  blood  of  his  father  responded 
nobly. 

"  I  am  prepared,  sir,  to  give  you  satisfaction." 

For  the  first  time  Payson  smiled.  "  Mary  said  that 
-  you  would  most  likely  challenge  me." 

Eric  flushed.  "  I  give  you  to  understand,  sir,  that 
this  is  not  child's  play.  You  cannot  treat  it  as  a  joke. 
It  is—" 

"  But  I  graciously  promised  her  that  I  would  over 
look  all  the  affronts  of  this  first  interview.  I  knew  just 
how  you  would  be  feeling,"  said  Payson  good  humour- 
edly. 

Midthorne  turned  away,  biting  his  lips  to  hold  back 
the  rush  of  angry  words. 

"  You  will  have  to  admit,  Eric,  that  I  have  done  the 
decent  — " 

"  Don't  call  me  Eric !  And  don't  use  the  word  '  de 
cent,*  "  snapped  Eric.  "  It's  so  damned  middle-class. 
It  shows  where  you  belong." 

Payson's  cheek  burned.  "  That,  at  least,  was  un 
called  for,  Mr.  Midthorne.  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  a 
decent  one,  even  though  it  jars  on  you.  But  we  are 
wasting  words.  I  came  to  ask  for  your  sister's  hand. 
Am  I  to  understand  that  you  mean  to  oppose  me  ?  " 

"  Most  assuredly.     I  forbid  her  to  even  think  of  it." 

Payson  smiled.  "  I'm  afraid  you  can't  control  her 
thoughts.  She  has  outgrown  you,  Mr.  Midthorne.  You 
seem  to  forget  that  she  is  a  woman..,  I  have  no  sister^ 


260  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

but  I  believe  I  can  in  a  measure  appreciate  the  shock 
you  have  experienced  in  suddenly  learning  that  your 
sister  is  no  longer  a  child  in  pinafores,  but  a  grown 
woman,  with  a  woman's  heart  and  body  and  a  woman's 
capacity  to  love  a  man  because  he  is  a  man.  She  adores 
you,  she  will  be  guided  by  what  you  advise,  but — " 
He  stopped  and  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  She  will  drop  you  like  a  hot  poker,  Payson,  when 
I've  told  her  a  few  things  I  know,"  said  Eric,  feeling 
that  he  was  getting  very  much  the  worst  of  it  and  grow 
ing  vindictive  in  consequence. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  these  things  to  me?  "  de 
manded  Payson,  a  hard  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"  They're  between  Mary  and  me,  that's  all  I've  got  to 
say." 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  meeting  me  fairly  ?  " 

'*  It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter." 

"  Very  well.  The  interview  is  at  an  end.  I  may  as 
•well  tell  you,  however,  that  I  intend  to  marry  your  sis 
ter." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  grated  Eric. 

Payson  bowed  very  stiffly  and  turned  to  walk  away. 
After  taking  a  few  steps,  he  whirled  impulsively,  a  plead 
ing  look  in  his  eyes.  His  voice  rang  with  an  honest  ap 
peal  to  the  other's  fairness. 

"  See  here,  Eric,  can't  we  be  friends  ?  What  have  I 
done  that  you  should  treat  me  in  this  manner?  I  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  Mary  with  the  sting  of  her  brother's 
hatred  hurting  me,  knowing  that  I've  got  to  go  on  lov 
ing  her  while  — " 

"  In  the  first  place,"  interrupted  Eric,  "  you  want  to 
get  your  hands  on  her  little  fortune.  You  — " 

"  Stop  right  there !  I  wish  to  serve  notice  on  you  and 
your  Uncle  Horace  that  when  I  become  Mary's  husband 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  261 

it  will  devolve  upon  me  to  look  after  all  of  her  affairs. 
If  you  think  I'm  the  sort  of  man  who  will  consent  to  the 
espionage  of  a  —  well,  I  won't  say  it.  He's  your 
uncle.  But  take  this  from  me:  I'll  handle  Mary's 
property." 

"  And  sink  every  dollar  of  it  in  some  wild-cat  specula 
tion  of  yours.  I  know  the  kind,"  sneered  Eric. 

"  I  am  not  a  speculator,"  said  Payson  quietly. 

"  We'll  pass  that  point.  I'm  going  to  put  a  very 
blunt  question  to  you.  Who  was  your  father?  " 

Payson's  face  went  very  white.  A  full  minute  passed 
before  his  lips  parted  in  reply  to  this  unexpected  ques 
tion. 

"  My  father  was  not  a  blue-stocking,  Mr.  Midthorne, 
if  that's  what  you're  trying  to  get  at.  Am  I  to  under 
stand  that  you  object  to  me  because  I  happen  to  have 
been  born  to  a  somewhat  less  exalted  state  than  your 
own?" 

"  No.  Not  just  that,"  said  Eric  meaningly.  "  Who 
is  your  father  ?  " 

The  one  small  word  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  "  Is," 
he  said, —  not  "  was." 

"  Why, —  why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  stammered  Pay- 
son,  the  blood  rushing  to  his  cheeks.  "  My  father  is 
dead.  I  can't  even  remember  him.  You  —  you  think 
he  is  alive?  That  he  is  —  Good  Lord,  you  don't  sus 
pect  that  he  is  a  criminal,  a  fugitive,  or  something  of 
that  sort!" 

"  He  died  before  you  can  remember?  "  cried  Eric,  his 
eyes  gleaming. 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  sailing-master.  He  took  a  boat 
out  of  this  port  for  years.  One  night  he  was  lost  in  a 
gale.  His  body  never  came  ashore.  He's  lying  out 
there  in  the  Atlantic  somewhere,  with  all  the  others  who 


262  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

are  buried  in  that  vast  grave.  For  you  know,  Mr. 
Midthorne,  that  the  Atlantic  is  a  graveyard." 

Eric  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  disconcerting  direct 
ness  in  the  other  man's  words.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  a  significant,  even  mocking  gleam  in  the  grey 
ish  eyes. 

A  chill  crept  swiftly  into  his  blood.  He  felt  the  icy 
moisture  starting  from  every  pore  in  his  body.  Was  it 
possible  that  Payson  knew?  Was  he  so  close  to  Adam 
Carr  that  the  great  secret  had  been  given  into  his  keep 
ing, —  and  for  what  sinister  purpose?  To  be  used  as  a 
threat,  as  a  club? 

With  an  almost  visible  effort,  he  regained  control  of 
his  wavering  fortitude.  There  was  the  chance,  he  ar 
gued  inwardly,  that  Payson's  remark  had  no  sinister 
meaning.  He  would  not  be  so  easily  caught. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  your  father  is  lying  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  Atlantic?  "  he  asked,  after  the  briefest  hesi 
tation. 

Payson  scowled.  "  See  here,  Midthorne,  I  don't  like 
your  manner.  What  are  you  driving  at?  My  father, 
Captain  Henry  Payson,  went  down  with  his  schooner, 
the  Lanigan.  Three  of  the  crew  were  picked  up  alive. 
Two  of  them  are  inmates  to-day  of  the  Seaman's  Home. 
There  is  no  mistake.  He  was  an  honest  man,  and  a  God 
fearing  one.  He  was  not  a  gentleman,  according  to 
your  lights,  I  daresay,  but  he  must  have  been  a  good 
man,  for  my  mother  has  prayed  that  I  might  grow  up  to 
be  like  him."  He  came  a  step  nearer.  "  What  have 
you  heard?  Has  anyone  told  you  that  he  did  not  go 
down  with  the  Lamgan?  Has  anyone  dared  to  say  that 
he  took  that  way  of  deserting  my  mother  and  me  ?  " 

"  How  old  were  you  when  the  ship  went  down  ?  "  de 
manded  Eric,  ignoring  the  questions. 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  263 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Will  you  answer  the  question  or  not?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  was  not  more  than  six  months  old, 
they  tell  me.  My  mother  has  told  me  the  story  a  hun 
dred  times  over  —  all  about  the  black  night  and  the  sav 
age  storm  in  the  April  of  that  year.  Adam  Carr  has 
told  me  of  my  father.  He  was  his  closest  friend.  He 
always  stayed  at  our  house  when  he  was  in  Corinth  be 
tween  voyages.  I've  known  him  always.  He  can  tell 
you  that  my  father  was  an  honest  man  and  that  he  did 
go  down  with  the  Lanigan.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my 
father.  By  heaven,  I  hope  I  am  like  him.  He  was  a 
ma/n!  " 

There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  sincerity.  If  there 
was  a  mystery  in  connexion  with  his  origin,  he  was  totally 
ignorant  of  the  fact.  It  was  plain  to  Eric  that  the 
secret  mumblings  of  gossiping  townspeople  had  never 
reached  his  ears ;  it  was  equally  plain  that  Payson  had 
never  noted  the  resemblance  of  himself  to  Adam  Carr. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Eric  felt  a  sudden,  sharp  pity  for 
this  tall,  good-looking  chap. 

"  I  have  the  right  to  inquire,  you'll  admit  that,  Pay- 
son,"  he  said,  less  arbitrarily. 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  safd  the  other,  biting  his  lip 
as  he  stared  at  the  ground  through  narrowed  lids. 
"  Mary,  God  bless  her,  would  have  taken  me  as  I  am, 
without  a  single  question.  It's  just  as  well  that  there  is 
someone  to  ask  questions  for  her.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Midthorne." 

Eric  watched  him  until  his  strong,  erect  figure  disap 
peared  at  a  bend  in  the  lane.  Vaguely  conscious  that  he 
had  not  come  off  with  flying  colours  in  this  fruitless  in 
terview,  he  jammed  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and,  witK 
lowered  chin,  turned  to  re-enter  the  cottage. 


264  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

There  was  a  new  kind  of  terror  tugging  at  his  heart. 
To  what  end  was  Adam  Carr  carrying  his  mysterious 
game  ? 

A  raucous,  indistinct  but  startlingly  familiar  laugh 
came  to  his  ears.  He  stopped  in  his  tracks  as  if  turned 
to  stone.  For  years  he  had  been  waiting  for  a  repeti 
tion  of  that  never-to-be-forgotten  sound.  Somehow  he 
knew  it  would  come  again.  He  knew  that  it  would  avail 
him  not  to  look  for  visible  signs  of  him  who  laughed. 
The  sound  was  of  the  air  itself;  it  enveloped  him;  he 
could  reach  out  his  hand  and  touch  the  laugh  itself !  He 
was  breathing  that  ghastly  sound,  he  was  inhaling  it ! 

His  knees  shook.  He  could  feel  the  hair  on  his  head 
rise,  as  if  responding  to  the  freezing  current  that  raced 
through  him.  His  glaring  eyes  searched  among  the 
leafless  branches  of  the  trees. 

Again  came  the  low  laugh,  this  time  apparently  from 
the  interior  of  the  cottage.  With  a  cry,  he  sprang  to 
the  door  and  threw  it  open,  stopping  on  the  threshold  to 
peer  into  the  dim  interior  of  the  old  man's  home. 

In  a  rocking  chair,  back  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
room,  sat  a  long,  shadowy  figure.  A  groan  broke  in  the 
young  man's  dry  throat.  It  was  a  familiar  figure.  He 
had  seen  it  in  his  dreams. 

As  he  fell  back  against  the  door- jamb,  the  figure 
arose  from  the  chair.  It  seemed  to  shrink  in  size  as  he 
glared  at  it.  It  moved  toward  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Eric,"  said  Adam  Carr,  emerging 
into  the  light  that  came  through  the  open  doorway. 

"  Good  God !  "  broke  from  Eric's  stiffened  lips.  He 
staggered  to  a  chair  and  dropped  heavily  into  it. 

"  Have  you  seen  a  ghost  ?  "  asked  Adam,  stopping 
short  to  stare  at  his  young  friend. 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  265 

"  When  —  when  did  you  come  in  here  ?  "  demanded 
Eric  hoarsely. 

"  I  spent  the  night  here.  I  overslept,"  said  the  other, 
his  short,  heavy  frame  stretching  as  if  arousing  itself 
from  the  lethargy  of  sleep.  "  Father's  out  in  the 
kitchen  making  a  pot  of  coffee  for  me." 

"  What  were  you  laughing  at  a  moment  ago  ?  "  asked 
Eric,  passing  his  hand  across  his  moist  forehead. 

"  Oh,"  said  Adam  Carr,  "  you  heard  me,  did  you  ? 
I  was  laughing  at  Jack.  You've  no  idea  how  stiff  and 
ramroddy  he  looked  stalking  down  the  lane.  You  must 
have  said  something  that  hurt." 


CHAPTER  XY 

THE    PBODIGAL    SISTEB,   EETUBNS 

ERIC  journeyed  to  New  York  by  the  six  o'clock  express 
that  evening,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  not  unmixed  with 
despair.  He  had  had  a  long  afternoon  in  which  to 
think  over  the  situation.  The  fear  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  him  that  Mary  would  not  be  as  tractable  as  he 
had  fondly  hoped.  He  found  himself,  unwillingly,  it 
is  true,  considering  the  manly  charm,  the  attractive  mas 
culinity  of  John  Payson.  It  was  not  difficult,  now  that 
he  was  able  to  picture  Mary  as  something  more  than 
the  slim,  brown-eyed  girl  he  had  condemned,  in  his 
brotherly  ignorance,  to  a  state  of  eternal  immaturity, — 
it  was  not  difficult,  I  repeat,  for  him  to  understand  how 
she  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  fellow.  It  was 
hard  to  believe,  of  course,  that  she  was  a  woman  and  a 
woman  with  a  mind  of  her  own.  She  had  always  been 
a  little  girl  to  him.  Somehow  he  had  felt  that  she  al 
ways  would  be.  There  was  a  distinct  shock  at  the  awak 
ening.  Why,  she  was  twenty-one!  His  little  sister 
was  twenty-one! 

Joan  Bright  was  nearing  twenty-three,  and  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  woman  for  five  years  or  more.  She 
had  been  his  sweetheart  —  his  real  sweetheart  for  ages, 
it  seemed  to  him.  She  had  known  what  it  was  to  love 
and  be  loved  since  the  days  when  her  frocks  came  down 
to  her  shoe-tops.  And  she  had  known,  instinctively, 
from  the  first,  how  to  meet  his  love,  his  passion  half 
way.  It  was  the  woman  in  her,  just  as  it  had  been  the 

man  in  him.     Then,  why  not  Mary? 

266 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS     267 

But  Jack  Payson !  Why  had  Fate  led  him  across  his 
sister's  path?  Why  should  he  have  been  the  one? 

Out  of  all  this,  however,  grew  the  sober  reflection  that 
he  had  not  discredited  Payson  until  his  uncle's  letter  ap 
prised  him  of  the  fact  that  he  was  interested  in  Mary. 
In  fact,  he  had  looked  upon  the  ex-teller  as  a  much 
abused  hero  in  whose  footsteps  it  were  a  credit  and  an 
honour  to  tread.  Secretly,  with  all  Corinth,  in  those 
other  days,  he  had  rejoiced  in  the  vindication  of  Jack 
Payson. 

But  that  was  before  his  uncle's  vague  indictment  had 
been  sustained  by  personal  observation.  With  his  own 
eyes  he  had  discovered  the  bar-sinister.  The  man  was 
marked.  He  could  not  change  his  spots.  There  was 
no  question  in  Eric's  mind  as  to  the  real  truth.  He  had 
been  born  in  sin  and  Adam  Carr  was  father  to  him. 

No  small  amount  of  bitterness  was  added  to  his  cup 
before  he  left  Corinth.  His  uncle,  with  more  cruelty 
than  he  intended,  had  compared  Eric  in  his  present  posi 
tion  to  himself  under  similar  conditions  many  years  be 
fore. 

"  It  is  working  around  in  a  circle,  Eric,"  he  said, 
while  they  were  discussing  the  best  means  of  inducing 
Mary  to  return  to  the  house  on  the  hill.  "  You  stand 
just  where  I  did  twenty-six  years  ago.  The  situation 
is  identical.  Then  it  was  I  who  suffered  the  loss  of  a 
sister,  now  it  is  you.  Mary  will  have  her  way,  just  as 
her  mother  did  before  her.  She  will  not  be  turned  back. 
If  I  failed  in  my  day,  what  chance  have  you  in  yours? 
Ah,  my  boy,  we  are  Blagdens,  you  and  I.  Time  is  prov 
ing  us  to  be  alike  in  every  respect,  even  to  our  heart 
aches  and  disappointments." 

On  the  other  hand,  Adam  Carr,  down  in  the  gate 
keeper's  cottage,  had  grimly  said,  in  reply  to  the  young 


268  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

man's  bitter  lament :  "  You  can't  regulate  the  heart 
beats  of  a  young  woman,  Eric.  They  either  beat  for 
you  or  against  you,  and  they'll  beat  in  spite  of  you. 
That's  why  men  sometimes  have  such  a  hard  time  get 
ting  rid  of  women  they're  tired  of.  Can  you  honestly 
blame  your  sister  for  falling  in  love  with  Jack?  Now, 
take  your  Aunt  Rena's  case.  She  had  brothers,  a  cou 
ple  of  'em.  Fine  chaps  and  good  sportsmen.  What  do 
you  suppose  they  said  when  they  heard  she  was  going 
to  marry  a  narrow-minded  Miss  Nancy  like  Horace 
Blagden?  Why,  they  simply  roared  like  a  couple  of 
wounded  lions.  But  did  it  do  them  any  good?  No, 
sir.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  marrying  him,  and  that 
settled  it.  I've  often  wondered  what  kind  of  a  woman 
she  might  have  been  if  she'd  married  one  of  those  scamps 
of  New  Yorkers  your  uncle  holds  so  cheaply.  She 
might  have  been  hob-nobbing  with  the  Astors  and  Van- 
derbilts  at  this  very  minute.  But  she  was  bound  to  have 
Horace.  No,  my  boy,  there's  no  accounting  for  taste 
when  a  woman's  heart  is  concerned,  especially  if  it's 
set." 

Payson  went  to  New  York  on  the  train  with  Eric, 
but  they  saw  nothing  of  each  other  after  a  single,  un 
friendly  glance  at  the  Corinth  depot. 

The  next  morning  Eric  presented  himself  at  Mrs. 
Kendrick's.  He  knew  the  lady  by  reputation,  as  one 
knows  of  people  whose  names  are  to  be  seen  in  the  so 
ciety  columns  of  the  great  newspapers  and  periodicals. 
He  could  not  help  wondering  how  Jack  Payson,  a  sail 
ing-master's  son,  came  tp  know  the  rather  exclusive  Mrs. 
Kendrick. 

Mary's  first  words,  after  their  mutual  embraces  and 
her  own  hysteric  sniffles  of  joy,  were  these: 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS      269 

"  Now,  Eric,  you  are  not  to  scold  me.  I  can't  bear 
it" 

Whereupon  she  proceeded  to  cry  very  heartily,  to  his 
sad  undoing. 

To  his  intense  amazement  —  you  might  say  concern 
"  — he  discovered  her  to  be  a  fully  developed  woman, 
modish  to  the  tips  of  her  toes,  and  very  far  removed 
from  the  shy,  dependent  little  sister  he  had  known  all  his 
life.  She  was  convincingly  attractive.  He  had  never 
thought  of  her  as  anything  but  familiarly  pretty. 
Somehow  the  very  feel  of  her  was  different.  Instead 
of  the  soft,  pliant,  almost  limp  feel  of  an  unformed 
body,  there  was  the  firm,  tense  resistance  of  a  mature 
woman.  The  wistful,  inquisitive  gleam  was  gone  from 
her  eyes ;  the  tender  mobility  of  her  lips,  the  girlish  up 
lift  of  the  chin,  the  breeze-torn  look  of  the  dark  hair  — 
all  these  were  gone,  for  she  was  a  woman, —  his  little 
Mary  was  a  woman.  She  seemed  to  have  turned  into 
one  while  his  back  was  turned.  And  stranger  still, 
though  immensely  gratifying  to  him,  she  was  like  the 
women  he  had  seen  abroad  or  in  New  York,  the  kind  he 
admired:  she  was  smartly  gowned,  trimly  made,  with  a 
manner, —  a  real  manner.  There  was  nothing  about 
her  to  even  faintly  suggest  Corinth. 

While  he  stood  off,  unbelieving,  to  admire  her,  his 
*  mind  took  a  sharp  leap  through  space  to  the  deck  of  a 
yacht  that  cruised  the  Southern  seas.  Was  Joan,  too, 
like  this?  Had  she  out-grown  his  vision  so  completely? 
If  the  transformation  in  Joan  was  as  pronounced  — 
But,  ah !  She  was  off  in  the  Southern  seas.  That  was 
something  else  to  think  about. 

The  upshot  of  his  visit  was  that  Mary  went  to  Corinth 
with  him  that  very  afternoon.  At  the  end  of  the  long  and 


270  MAKY  MIDTHORNE 

trying  scene,  she  consented  to  return  with  him  on  con 
dition  that  she  was  not  to  go  back  to  the  home  'of  her 
uncle.  She  would  never  agree  to  that.  He  would  have 
to  take  the  Verner  Cottage,  which  was  for  rent.  She 
would  keep  house  for  him.  They  were  of  age,  she  ar 
gued  stubbornly,  and  independent.  They  could  afford 
to  have  a  place  of  their  own  and  —  live  as  they  wanted  to 
live,  not  as  Uncle  Horace  ordained.  No  amount  of  per 
suasion  on  his  part  could  alter  the  decision.  After  all, 
it  was  not  hard  for  him  to  appreciate  her  point  of 
view.  He  rather  favoured  the  plan  himself.  The 
house  on  the  hill  was  a  dismal  place  in  itself,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  conditions  which  were  bound  to  make  it 
even  more  unpleasant  for  both  of  them. 

His  chief  reason  for  wanting  her  to  go  back  to  the 
Blagdens  was  the  effect  that  such  an  act  would  have 
on  the  townspeople.  It  would  re-establish  her  at  once, 
if  such  a  thing  were  necessary.  He  had  no  means  of 
knowing  how  much  of  the  truth  Corinth  possessed,  or 
how  little  of  it.  There  was  the  forlorn  hope,  of  course, 
that  no  questions  had  been  asked,  and  that  her  visit  to 
Mrs.  Kendrick  had  been  accepted  as  a  perfectly  natural 
arrangement.  Still,  if  there  was  speculation  or  rumour 
he  was  eager  to  have  it  nipped  in  the  bud. 

But  she  objected  to  even  a  temporary  truce.  She 
would  not  put  her  foot  inside  the  Blagden  doors. 
Moreover,  she  would  not  go  back  to  Corinth  without 
consulting  John  Payson's  wishes  in  the  matter.  This 
was  a  sore  blow  to  Eric. 

Payson,  when  she  called  him  up  at  his  office  over  the 
telephone,  at  once  advised  her  to  accompany  her  brother, 
and  to  be  guided  by  him  in  every  particular.  Mrs. 
Kendrick,  who  impressed  Eric  as  a  most  admirable 
woman,  explained  her  own  position  to  his  complete  satis- 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS      271 

faction,  and  urged  the  girl  to  do  the  obviously  sensible 
thing. 

On  the  way  to  the  station  in  the  cab  Mary  said  to 
Eric,  almost  defiantly :  "  This  doesn't  mean,  Erne,  that 
I  am  giving  up  Jack.  You  understand  that,  don't 
you?" 

He  looked  straight  ahead,  his  jaw  stiffening. 
"  There's  time  enough  for  all  that,  Mary." 

Her  delicate  face  seemed  to  take  on  a  certain  hard 
ness.  "  I  suppose  Uncle  Horace  told  you  I'd  go  to  the 
devil,  just  as  mother  did,  and  that's  what  you're  afraid 
of.  Oh,  don't  look  so  horrified,  Errie.  It's  just  be 
tween  you  and  me.  He  didn't  hesitate  to  say  it  to  me, 
only  he  said  dogs  instead  of  devil.  You  wouldn't  have 
endured  it,  either.  We're  not  helpless  children  any 
longer." 

"  Mary,  we  must  never  talk  about  —  about  what  hap 
pened  when  we  were  babies.  I  don't  know  how  much  of 
the  story  is  true,  but  —  well,  let's  drop  the  subj  ect." 

"  But  are  you  afraid  I'll  do  just  what  old  Presbrey 
and  the  rest  of  them  prophesied  I'd  do?"  she  per 
sisted. 

"  No,  I'm  not,  dear.  You  are  as  good  as  gold,"  he 
cried  eagerly. 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye.  "  If 
you'll  trust  me,  Errie,  I'll  trust  you,"  she  said  enig 
matically.  She  put  her  hand  in  his  and  said  no  more. 

They  had  lived  in  the  Verner  cottage  for  more  than  a 
week  before  Eric  began  to  observe  the  peculiar  interest 
people  were  taking  in  their  little  home.  Women,  in 
passing,  were  prone  to  direct  furtive  glances  toward 
their  doorway  and  windows,  glances  that  more  often 
than  not  became  rather  penetrating.  Aside  from  the 


£72  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

natural  interest  people  would  be  expected  to  take  in  the 
doings  of  Horace  Blagden's  wards,  there  were  unmis 
takable  evidences  of  sharp  curiosity.  It  finally  dawned 
on  him  that  passers-by  were  not  interested  in  the  Mid- 
thornes  jointly,  but  in  Mary  alone.  Women  stared  at 
the  curtained  windows,  and  then,  before  reaching  the  ob 
structing  hedge,  invariably  turned  to  speak  to  each 
other  in  a  way  that  left  no  room  for  speculation  as  to 
the  significance  of  their  comments. 

The  town  was  beginning  to  discuss  Mary.  That  was 
the  sum  and  substance  of  it. 

In  great  distress,  Eric  went  to  his  uncle.  Neither  of 
the  Blagdens  had  been  near  the  little  home  in  Grove 
Street.  Their  aloofness  alone  was  sufficient  to  create 
comment,  and  comment  in  a  place  like  Corinth  is  usually 
of  an  unfavourable  character. 

Horace  listened  to  the  young  man's  bitter  arraignment 
of  fate  and  took  counsel  with  him. 

"  Bring  Mary  to  church  next  Sunday  morning,"  he 
said  in  conclusion.  "  Sit  in  your  old  places  in  our  pew. 
Your  aunt  and  I  will  be  there  as  usual.  If  Mary  cares 
to  have  us  do  so,  we  will  stop  for  you  on  the  way  over. 
If  it  is  pleasant  we  shall  walk.  I  suggest,  however,  that 
you  consult  Mary  before  undertaking  to  carry  out  this 
plan,  Eric.  The  situation  might  easily  become  awk 
ward  for  all  of  us." 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Horace,"  said  Eric,  greatly  re-> 
lieved.  "  I'll  take  it  up  with  Mary." 

Horace  cleared  his  throat.  "  I'm  sorry  she  refuses 
to  come  to  our  home.  It  should  be  her  home  and  yours. 
But  if  she  won't,  she  won't.  Your  aunt  and  I  have 
talked  the  matter  over.  If  you'd  like  us  to  do  so,  we 
will  drop  in  occasionally  to  see  you  at  the  cottage. 
Perhaps,  it  would  be  rather  helpful  if  we  were  to  do  so." 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS      273 

"It's  just  the  thing,"  cried  Eric.  "It's  good  of 
you  to  excuse  Mary's  attitude,  Uncle  Horace.  She'll 
come  to  her  senses  in  a  little  while,  I'm  sure.  You  will 
be  most  heartily  welcome  at — " 

Horace  pursed  his  lips  as  he  shook  his  head  slowly. 
*'  You'd  better  ask  Mary  first,  my  boy.  Then  let  me 
know  if  we  will  be  welcome." 

Mary  was  surprisingly  docile  about  it.  She  was  no 
fool.  She  sensed  the  thing  that  was  in  the  air. 

"  All  right,  Errie.  I'll  do  what  you  think  best. 
Mrs.  Paulding  cut  me  to-day  in  the  street.  That  shows 
how  the  wind  blows.  You  poor  boy !  I  am  sorry  on 
your  account." 

"  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  — "  he  began,  but  in 
stantly  checked  the  words.  He  came  near  to  saying 
something  that  would  have  hurt  her. 

She  waited  for  a  moment,  her  lips  parted  as  if  pre 
pared  to  cry  out  against  the  expected  pain.  Then  they 
trembled  with  the  wayward  little  smile  that  was  her 
greatest  charm. 

"  Good  old  Errie !  You  came  near  to  saying 
something  horrid,  didn't  you  ?  "  She  put  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  facing  him.  "  Isn't  this  ever  so 
much  nicer,  living  here  as  we  do?  You  know  it  is.  I 
think—" 

"  It's  great,  Mary,"  he  cried  warmly. 

"  Let  them  gossip,"  she  said  cheerfully,  although 
there  was  a  darker  glow  in  her  eyes.  "  It  won't  make 
any  difference  after  I'm  married  and  out  of  reach  of 
them.  It's  just  because  I'm  not  married  that  they're 
talking,  and  looking  at  my  back  after  I've  passed,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  — " 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  his  and  bent  over  her  fiercely. 
"  You  can't  marry  Jack  Payson,  Mary,"  he  cried.  "  I 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

can't  permit  it.  There  is  a  reason,  a  compelling  reason. 
Why  —  why,  I'd  kill  him  before  I'd  see  — " 

"  Now,  Errie !  "  she  cried,  snatching  her  hands  away. 
"  Don't  say  anything  you'll  regret.  I  won't  listen  to 
you." 

"  Why,  he's  —  he's  a  —  No,  I  won't  say  it !  "  he 
groaned. 

"  A  thief?  Fll  say  it  for  you.  He  isn't  one,  and 
you  know  it,  but  even  if  he  were,  what  cause  have  we 
for  boasting?  " 

"  Good  heaven,  Mary !  " 

"  Well,  let's  change  the  subject,"  she  said  sharply. 
"  You'd  better  hurry  on  or  you'll  miss  your  appoint 
ment  with  Judge  Bright.  Have  you  sent  the  plans  to 
him?" 

He  took  two  or  three  turns  up  and  down  the  room, 
pulling  himself  together. 

"  No,"  he  said,  breathing  deeply.  "  The  under 
standing  was  that  I  was  to  show  them  to  Joan  first  of  all. 
She's  not  here.  See  here,  Mary,  how  do  things  stand 
with  you  and  Joan  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Errie.  I  wish  I  did.  We  had  a  tiff 
a  couple  of  months  ago.  She  said  something  horrid 
about  John  Payson  and  I  replied  in  a  way  she  did  not 
like.  I  said  he  was  a  good  deal  more  of  a  man  than 
that  Sallonsby  chap  and  that  he'd  still  be  a  man  when  her 
fine  gentleman  was  pegging  around  with  locomotor 
ataxia  or  something  —  Why,  Errie !  What  is  the  mat 
ter?  " 

He  was  staring  at  her,  dismay  in  his  face. 

"  Paul  Sallonsby  ?     You  mean  she's  — " 

"  She's  mad  about  him.  They  — "  The  words  died 
on  her  lips.  He  had  turned  very  white.  The  truth 
was  revealed  to  her.  Impulsively  she  flew  to  his  side. 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS     275 

"  Oh,  Errie !  I  didn't  know  it  was  like  that.  You  care 
for  her  —  in  that  way  ?  Oh,  Errie !  Fm  so  sorry !  I 
—  I  thought  it  was  only  a  boy  and  girl  affair." 

He  held  her,  sobbing,  in  his  arms.  His  bloodless  lips 
were  working,  but  not  in  the  effort  to  speak.  .  .  . 
Something  had  been  shattered. 

A  little  later  he  left  the  house  and  made  his  way 
across  to  Judge  Bright's  home.  All  zest  in  the  building 
project  was  gone.  He  had  no  heart  in  the  long-cher 
ished  enterprise.  It  was  now  a  cold,  dull  business  trans 
action,  not  a  labour  of  love. 

He  could  not  believe  it  of  Joan.  Allowing  for  the 
distance  that  separated  them,  there  had  been  ample  time 
for  a  letter  to  have  reached  him  from  the  West  Indies. 
The  fact  that  she  had  left  no  word  for  him  in  Corinth, 
not  so  much  as  a  line,  was  even  more  convincing  to  his 
unwilling  mind.  She  had  found  someone  else  to  take 
his  place.  The  fond  dream  was  over.  He  was  awake 
after  the  long,  sweet  sleep  of  security, —  awake  to  find 
that  while  he  slept  she  had  slipped  away  from  him 
never  to  return.  And  yet  he  could  not  believe  it  of 
her. 

His  fears  were  somewhat  lessened  by  the  warmth  of 
Judge  Bright's  greeting.  The  fine  old  Justice  was 
frankly  glad  to  see  him.  There  could  be  no  doubt  as 
to  the  genuineness  of  his  affection,  nor  was  his  enthusi 
asm  over  the  prospects  of  his  young  friend  a  whit  di 
minished  by  the  years  that  had  fallen  upon  both  of 
them. 

"  I  wish  Joan  could  see  you  at  this  moment,  Eric,"  he 
said,  as  he  wrung  the  tall,  handsome  fellow's  hand. 
"  She  has  often  wondered  what  the  two  years  would  do 
for  you.  Upon  my  soul,  you  are  the  living  image  of 
your  father  when  he  was  twenty-five, —  and  he  was  a 


276  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

man  one  looked  at  twice,  let  me  say  to  you.  It  does  my 
heart  good  to  see  you,  my  boy.  And  it  would  do  yours 
good  to  see  my  Joan."  His  eyes  glowed  with  joy  and 
pride.  "  Ah,  my  boy,  she  is  wonderful." 

Eric  flushed.  "  I  am  sorry  she  is  not  at  home,  Judge 
Bright.  I  —  I  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  her,  you 
may  be  sure." 

The  Justice  poked  him  with  his  thumb.  "  I  believe 
there  was  a  boy  and  girl  attachment,  wasn't  there?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  no  more  than  that,"  said  Eric 
soberly. 

Judge  Bright  gave  him  a  keen  glance.  "  I'll  not  tell 
her  that  you  put  it  in  just  those  words,"  he  said,  and 
Eric  wondered  not  a  little. 

Later  on,  they  fell  to  discussing  the  plans  for  the 
new  house.  Some  of  Eric's  enthusiasm  returned. 

"  Of  course,  we  can't  do  anything  until  she  returns 
from  this  pleasure  cruise,"  said  the  Judge.  "  She'd 
never  forgive  me  if  I  took  a  step  without  consulting 
her.  You've  no  idea  how  completely  she  has  me  under 
her  thumb." 

"  When  do  you  expect  her  to  return  ?  "  asked  Eric. 

"  It's  hard  to  say.  They  were  to  start  north  this 
week,  coming  direct  to  Boston,  but  it  seems  that  new 
plans  have  been  made.  I  had  word  yesterday  that  they 
are  going  to  Vera  Cruz  and  New  Orleans  and  a  number 
of  places  along  the  gulf,  despite  the  approach  of  hot 
weather  in  those  parts.  It  now  appears  that  the  yacht 
won't  start  homeward  short  of  four  or  five  weeks.  We'll 
have  to  sit  back  and  wait  for  her,  Eric,  that's  all." 

Eric  departed  without  having  exposed  his  true  feel 
ings  to  the  father  of  the  girl  he  loved.  His  pride  was 
beginning  to  assert  itself.  A  dull  red  seemed  to  have 
come  into  his  cheek  to  stay. 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS      277 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know  when  Joan 
returns,  Judge  Bright?  " 

"  I  fancy  you'll  know  it  quite  as  soon  as  I  do,"  said 
the  girl's  father,  with  a  smile. 

"  That's  not  likely,  sir,"  said  Eric  calmly. 

He  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  public 
square.  Not  that  business  called  him  there,  but  because 
he  wanted  to  be  where  humanity  was  thickest  in 
Corinth.  He  wanted  to  imagine  himself  in  Paris !  The 
ludicrousness  of  the  thing  did  not  occur  to  him.  He 
only  knew  that  he  hungered  for  something  gay,  and 
bright,  and  whirling.  The  public  square  in  Corinth 
was  the  nearest  approach  to  all  that. 

At  the  corner  of  the  square  he  stopped  suddenly  and 
looked  about  him  as  if  aroused  from  a  daze.  A  short, 
bitter  laugh  broke  from  his  lips. 

"  Good  heaven ! "  he  muttered,  staring  across  the  de 
serted  common.  "  As  dead  as  Carthagenia  itself.  Why 
should  I  stay  here?  What  is  there  for  me?  By 
George,  I'll  get  out  before  I'm  a  week  older.  Mary's 
right.  What  a  fool  I  am  to  think  of  wasting  even  a 
day  in  this  place.  I'll  tell  Judge  Bright  I  can't  take 
on  the  house  for  him.  It's  out  of  the  — " 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  to  face 
his  uncle. 

"A  bad  habit,  Eric,  talking  aloud,"  said  the  gaunt 
old  man. 

"  I've  just  come  to  a  decision,  Uncle,"  said  Eric,  a 
trace  of  excitement  in  his  voice. 

"  I  have  an  idea  what  it  is,  my  boy.  You  were  look 
ing  at  the  new  Court-house.  That  tells  the  tale.  It  is 
a  handsome  building." 

"  No,  no !  It  isn't  that,  Uncle  Horace.  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  the  Court-house,"  cried  Eric  hastily. 


278  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Nevertheless,  there  must  be  a  bitterness  in  your 
heart  as  you  look  at  it.  You  are  its  creator,  and  yet 
the  fact  is  known  only  to  you  and  me.  You  have  de 
cided  to  tell  the  truth  about  the  —  er,  ahem !  —  the  de 
sign." 

Horace  was  looking  straight  past  his  nephew's  head. 
The  young  man  noted  the  deepening  of  the  lines  about 
his  lips. 

He  cried  out  in  protest.  "  I  have  not  given  it  a 
thought.  Uncle  Horace.  That's  all  past.  I  don't  care 
—  not  now." 

Horace  looked  into  his  eyes.  "  It's  a  terrible  lie  I've 
been  living  all  these  years,  Eric.  Sometimes  I  feel  — " 
The  sentence  died  on  his  lips.  A  slight  shiver  went  over 
his  thin  figure.  His  face  hardened  and  the  warm  light 
in  his  eyes  gave  way  to  a  hard  glitter.  "  There  he  is, 
over  there, —  under  the  Massasoit  awning."  The  utter 
irrelevance  of  the  remark  had  a  curious  effect  on  Eric. 
He  was  at  that  instant  thinking  of  Chetwynd  Blagden. 

"  What !  "  he  gasped,  feeling  himself  turn  pale. 

He  turned  to  follow  the  direction  of  his  uncle's  gaze, 
half -expecting  to  see  the  huge  figure  of  his  cousin. 

Adam  Carr  was  standing  near  the  entrance  to  the 
hotel,  boldly  detached,  but  looking  in  the  opposite  di 
rection. 

"  I  had  another  letter  from  him  to-day,"  said  Horace, 
speaking  as  if  to  himself.  "  Will  he  never  bring  this 
chase  to  — "  He  caught  himself  up  with  a  visible  ef 
fort,  and  closed  his  lips  as  if  they  were  never  to  be 
parted  again. 

"What  did  he  say  in  that  letter,  Uncle  Horace?  I 
demand  an  answer,"  cried  Eric,  his  soul  sick. 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  speak  of  to  you  or  anyone  else," 
said  his  uncle  harshly.  "  But  — "  and  here  his  face 


THE  PRODIGAL  SISTER  RETURNS      279 

seemed  to  turn  positively  livid  — "  damn  him,  I  will  not 
let  him  see,  I  will  never  let  him  know !  " 

Then,  his  manner  changing  like  a  flash,  he  apolo 
gised  for  the  single  blasphemous  word,  and,  thrusting 
his  arm  through  Eric's,  deliberately  led  him  down  the 
street  toward  Adam  Carr.  They  passed  within  arm's- 
reach  of  the  man,  whose  back  was  still  toward  them. 

"  Good  morning,  Adam,"  said  Mr.  Blagden  as  they 
passed. 

Adam  still  gazed  into  the  cigarist's  window. 

"  Good  morning,  Horace,"  said  he  briskly.  That 
was  all.  They  had  been  passing  the  time  of  day  in  this 
manner,  on  widely  separated  occasions,  for  years. 

Out  of  hearing,  Horace  lifted  his  arm  and  pointed 
to  a  row  of  small,  unsightly  buildings  on  the  north  side 
of  the  square. 

"  I  own  that  row  of  buildings,  Eric,"  he  said,  as  if 
there  was  nothing  else  in  his  tired,  harassed  brain  but 
business  affairs.  "  They  are  an  eye-sore,  aren't  they  ? 
Well,  I'm  deeding  that  entire  block  to  the  city  of 
Corinth.  What  is  more,  sir,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
block,  after  we've  demolished  those  unsightly  structures, 
there  is  to  be  erected  the  handsomest  public  library  in 
the  state,  designed  by  the  most  able  architect  I  can  think 
of,  and  built  under  his  direction.  It  is  to  be  called  the 
Blagden  Library,  and  it  is  to  be  designed  by  Eric  Mid- 
thorne,  and  it  is  to  cost  $400,000.  I  am  giving  it  to 
Corinth.  I  want  you  to  build  something  for  me,  Eric, 
that  I  can  be  proud  of  to  the  end  of  my  days." 

Eric  stared.  "  Uncle  Horace,  are  you  era  —  I  mean, 
are  you  in  earnest  ?  Do  you  mean  — " 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  his  uncle  calmly,  "  I'd 
like  you  to  keep  it  a  secret  for  a  day  or  two.  The 
deeds  are  being  prepared  by  Mr.  Graves.  To-morrow, 


280  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

perhaps,  I'll  give  it  to  the  Courier.  I  believe  newspaper 
men  would  call  it  a  scoop,  or  a  beat,  which  is  it?  At 
any  rate,  we'll  supply  the  paper  with  editorial  food  for 
a  month  or  more,  eh?  Blagden  breakfast  food,  eh?  " 

He  clapped  the  bewildered  Midthorne  on  the  back 
and  laughed  his  driest  cackle.  He  was  the  same  old 
Horace,  after  all, —  the  same  old  egoist. 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  murmured  Eric,  forgetting  his 
own  troubles  in  the  face  of  this  stupendous  philan 
thropy  that  was  to  hang  over  the  heads  of  the  Cor 
inthians  till  the  crack  of  doom. 

"  You'll  see,  my  boy,  you'll  see,"  said  his  uncle. 
"  Come  over  this  evening  and  we'll  discuss  the  plans.  I 
have  an  idea  or  two  myself,  and  so  has  your  ajint.  You 
may  be  interested  to  know  that  I  purpose  making  Pres- 
brey  the  librarian  in  charge." 

Again  Eric  stared.     "  Why,  I  thought  — " 

"  I  daresay  he'll  try  to  decline  the  honour  at  first," 
said  Horace  blandly,  "  but  we  shan't  accept  no  from 
any  man  so  far  as  this  undertaking  is  concerned.  Oh, 
by  the  way,  will  Mary  come  to  church  on  Sunday  ?  " 

'*  Yes,"  said  Eric.  "  Are  you  sure  you  want  me  to 
undertake  a  job  as  huge  as — " 

"  No  one  else  will  be  considered,"  said  Horace  with 
finality. 

They  had  come  to  the  stairway  leading  up  to  the 
editorial  rooms  of  the  Corinth  Courier.  With  a  grave 
bow  to  Eric,  Mr.  Blagden  turned  to  mount  them,  first 
glancing  up  at  the  window  from  which  the  publisher 
was  peering. 

"  He  thinks  I'm  coming  for  the  rent,"  said  Horace. 
"  Good  day,  Eric." 

In  a  maze  of  mingled  wonder  and  distress,  Eric  made 
His  way  homeward.  He  was  filled  with  wonder  over  his 


uncle's  amazing  act  of  generosity,  distressed  over  the 
new  complication  that  was  about  to  be  forced  upon 
him.  Out  of  the  maze  came  a  sharp,  cruel  revelation 
of  Horace  Blagden's  true  motive  in  giving  this  great 
edifice  to  the  City  of  Corinth.  It  was  not  for  the  sake 
of  Corinth  that  he  was  doing  it,  nor  for  the  perpetua 
tion  of  the  name  of  Blagden  alone,  but  as  a  penance  to 
his  own  disturbed  conscience. 

It  was  his  way  of  measuring  expiation. 

But  how  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  for  Eric  to 
accept  this  tribute!  His  heart  was  full.  He  under 
stood  his  uncle,  and  he  pitied  him.  The  great  man  of 
Corinth  was  striving  to  right  a  wrong  that  now  seemed 
trivial  to  the  young  man.  Compensation:  that  was  all 
it  meant  to  Horace  Blagden  —  a  splendid  recompense. 
He  could  think  of  no  other  way  to  pay  so  handsomely 
as  this.  The  world  would  never  know  the  true  meaning 
of  the  gift  to  Corinth,  yet  he  would  be  square  with  it. 
There  was  something  truly  pathetic  in  his  method:  pa 
thetic  because  his  own  self-glorification  was  a  secondary 
condition  despite  all  outward  appearances. 

As  Eric  entered  his  own  little  dooryard,  the  passive 
resolution  that  had  been  gently  tugging  at  his  con 
science  for  years  leaped  into  violent  protest  against 
further  suppression.  The  time  had  come  when  he  could 
no  longer  maintain  silence.  The  truth  would  have  to 
be  told. 

He  could  no  longer  watch  the  suffering  of  those 
silent,  harassed  parents.  He  could  not  accept  favours 
from  them,  knowing  all  that  he  knew.  He  would  have 
to  tell. 

First  of  all,  he  must  have  it  out  with  Adam  Carr. 
With  this  thought  in  mind  he  was  about  to  retrace  his 
steps  toward  the  square  in  quest  of  the  detective,  when 


282  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mary's  voice  called  to  him  from  the  window  of  their 
cottage. 

He  hesitated.  The  voice  of  his  sister  had  a  strange 
effect  on  his  new-made  resolve.  What  would  all  this 
mean  to  her?  Suppose  that  Adam  Carr  turned  against 
him;  suppose  that  his  friend  denied  him  in  order  to 
protect  himself  from  the  wrath  of  Horace  Blagden? 

These  thoughts  were  racing  through  tis  brain  when 
Mary  came  out  upon  the  doorstep  and  called  to  him : 

"  Eric,  don't  go  away.  Mr.  Carr  is  waiting  here 
to  see  you.  He  has  heard  that  Chetwynd  is  in  Rio 
Janeiro  and  — " 

With  a  mad  cry,  Eric  dashed  up  the  walk,  sweeping 
her  aside  as  he  crossed  the  porch.  The  next  instant, 
he  stood  in  the  little  sitting-room,  facing  Adam  Carr 
with  blazing  eyes  and  quivering  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    STONE    WALL 

"  IT'S  got  to  stop !  It's  got  to  stop ! "  he  almost 
shrieked,  shaking  his  clenched  fist  at  the  man  in  the 
chair. 

Adam  Carr  did  not  arise,  but  appeared  to  shrink 
deeper  into  the  rocking-chair,  as  if  in  actual  retreat 
before  the  peril  in  Eric's  eyes. 

Mary  looked  on  amazed,  bewildered.  "  Eric ! "  she 
cried,  but  he  did  not  hear  her. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Adam  Carr  ?  "  he  shouted.  "  It's 
absolutely  devilish.  I've  got  a  heart  if  you  haven't. 
I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me,  I'm  going  to  put  an 
end  to  it.  Great  heaven,  man,  can't  you  see  what 
they're  suffering?  Haven't  you  had  your  fill?  Do 
you  mean  to  keep  on  up  to  the  day  they  die?  Well,  by 
heaven,  you  shan't!  Do  you  hear  me?  You  shan't!" 

Adam's  scowl  would  have  checked  a  less  excited,  less 
distraught  speaker.  He  leaned  forward  in  the  chair, 
his  big  hands  gripping  the  arms. 

"  It's  only  been  for  six  years,"  he  said,  as  much  to 
himself  as  to  Eric.  Apparently  he,  too,  was  forgetting 
the  presence  of  Mary.  In  the  next  breath  he  remem 
bered  her.  "  You'd  better  hold  your  tongue,  Eric. 
Mary's  here.  We  can  go  outside  and  — " 

"No,  we'll  stay  right  here.  We'll  have  it  out,  here 
and  now.  I  mean  to  tell  Uncle  Horace  the  truth." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  snapped  Adam 
Carr,  arising. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  consequences,"  cried  Eric 


284  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

savagely.  "  I'll  pay  the  price,  whatever  it  is.  I  can't 
go  on,  that's  all.  Good  heaven,  do  you  think  I  can  see 
you  calmly  driving  nails  into  their  coffins  as  you  — " 

"  Stop  just  a  minute,"  said  Adam  sharply.  "  Think 
what  you  are  saying.  Are  you  losing  your  mind? 
Leave  all  this  to  me,  Eric,  I  beg  of  you.  I  am  your 
friend,  I  — " 

"  But  I  am  their  flesh  and  blood.  My  friend,  are 
you  ?  No !  Adam  Carr,  you  are  my  master.  You  own 
me,  body  and  soul.  Oh,  don't  misunderstand  me.  I 
am  not  ungrateful.  You  have  helped  me.  I  shan't 
forget  all  you  did  for  me  six  years  ago.  But  I  didn't 
realise  what  you  were  going  to  make  of  it.  You  tricked 
me  into  — " 

"  Wait !  "  cried  Adam,  plainly  distressed.  "  Don't 
say  that,  Eric.  I'll  admit  I  took  advantage  of  —  of 
everything  —  but  I  did  not  trick  you.  It  was  a  fair 
game.  I've  kept  my  lips  sealed.  I've  stood  back  of 
you  in — " 

Eric  thrust  his  face  close  to  the  other's.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  Jack  Payson  hasn't  had  the  whole 
story  from  you  ?  Answer  me  that  question.  You  can't 
deny  it." 

Adam  fell  back  a  step,  genuine  astonishment  in  hia 
face. 

"  No !     Why  do  you  ask  ?     What  has  he  said  to  lead 
you  to  believe  —  Nonsense !     He  doesn't  know  it.     It's  i 
impossible.     Eric,  there  isn't  a  soul  on  this  earth  that 
knows  the  truth,  except  you  and  I." 

"  Jack  knows, —  I'm  sure  he  knows,"  cried  Eric  hotly. 
"  And  how  could  he  know,  except  through  you  ?  I 
know  what  he  is  to  you.  But  even  at  that,  it  was  a 
blamed  scurvy  thing  to  do." 


THE  STONE  WALL  285 

The  look  in  Adam's  eyes  put  a  sudden  check  on  the 
ruthless  words  that  were  rushing  to  his  lips.  The  man's 
face  had  turned  a  ghastly  blue.  He  glared  for  an 
instant  into  the  fierce  eyes  opposite,  and  then  slowly 
drew  back,  reaching  out  with  his  hand  for  the  support 
of  a  chair.  The  hue  of  apoplexy  had  covered  his  face. 
Eric  had  never  seen  a  man  who  looked  like  this.  He 
was  filled  with  a  sudden  consternation.  Was  the  man 
about  to  die  ? 

"  Look  out,  Mr.  Adam ! "  he  cried  out.  "  Here ! 
Sit  down!  I  —  I  take  it  all  back.  I  shouldn't  have 
said  that.  I'm  half-crazy. —  I'm  out  of  my  senses." 

Adam  waved  him  off.  The  purplish  hue  receded  and 
left  his  face  almost  sallow. 

"  You  mean  that  you  take  back  what  you  said  about 
—  about  what?  "  he  demanded. 

"  About  your  having  told  him,  of  course." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  Adam,  fixing  Eric  with  eyes  in 
which  lay  the  light  of  humble  appeal.  "  You  don't 
take  back  the  other." 

Eric's  gaze  wavered.  "  That's  neither  here  nor 
there.  We  won't  discuss  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Just  as  you  please,  Eric,"  said  Adam  slowly.  Then 
with  a  positive  snarl  in  his  tones :  "  He  doesn't  know. 
Get  that  out  of  your  head.  No  one  knows.  No  one 
need  know.  Let  me  finish.  I'll  put  an  end  to  the  whole 
game  if  you  insist.  Give  me  a  week, —  no,  a  month. 
I'm  getting  sick  of  the  thing  myself.  The  pleasure's 
all  gone  out  of  it.  I'm  not  altogether  heartless;  I 
can  even  feel  sorry  for  Horace.  But  we've  got  to  use 
judgment,  discretion.  I  can't  go  to  him  to-day  with 
my  lie  about  Chetwynd's  death  in  some  foreign  land, — 
or  sea.  It  will  have  to  be  worked  up  slowly,  deliberately. 


286  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

I've  got  the  thing  fixed  in  my  mind.  I  shall  tell  him  that 
the  boy  was  killed  in  the  South  American  revolution  now 
in  progress  in  — " 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Eric,  pounding  the  mantelpiece 
with  his  clenched  hand.  "  Fm  going  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  I'm  going  to  purge  my  soul  of  all  that 
curses  it.  No  more  trickery,  no  more  lying,  no  more 
subterfuge,  Mr.  Adam.  I'm  not  ungrateful  for  what 
you've  done  for  me,  God  knows  I'm  not.  I  can  only 
curse  myself  for  letting  it  go  on  so  long.  I've  been  a 
•dog,  a  coward,  a  —  a  demon.  That's  it :  a  demon. 
But  I  can't  go  on  with  it.  I  just  can't!  " 

Adam  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  You'd  better 
be  guided  by  me,  my  boy,"  he  said  kindly.  "  I  am 
your  friend,  and  I  am  in  full  possession  of  my  wits. 
Which  is  more  than  you  can  say.  Let  it  go  as  I  have 
planned.  There's  no  harm  in  that.  I'll  go  to  Horace 
in  a  few  days  and  put  his  mind  at  rest  forever.  I 
will  produce  positive  proof  that  Chetwynd  is  dead 
and  — " 

A  sharp  cry  broke  from  Mary's  lips.  The  two  men 
were  again  conscious  of  her  presence  in  the  room. 
She  was  standing  near  the  window  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  breast. 

"Eric!  What  is  he  saying?"  she  cried  in  a  shrill, 
unnatural  voice. 

Her  brother  hesitated  and  then  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  Mary  dear.  It's  such 
a  horrible  —  Yes!  I'll  get  it  over  with.  I'll  begin 
with  you,  Mary.  Do  you  remember  the  night  you 
dreamed  that  Chetwynd  — " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  boy,"  groaned  Adam,  "  stop  and 
think  before  you  do  this." 

"  No !     It's  now  or  never.     You  remember  that  night, 


THE  STONE  WALL  287 

Mary,  don't  you  ?  "  he  rushed  on,  something  like  frenzy 
taking  hold  of  him.  "  Six  years  ago  ?  I  slept  on  the 
floor  in—" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  she  cried,  bewildered. 

"  Well,  that  was  the  day  that  Chetwynd  died.  He 
did  not  run  away.  Mr.  Carr  has  not  been  looking  for 
him  all  these  years.  He's  been  dead  all  the  time."  He 
stopped  to  pull  the  collar  away  from  his  throat. 

Adam  Carr  dropped  his  arms  dejectedly  and  turned 
away. 

"  Impossible !  "  gasped  Mary.  "  Why  —  why,  Uncle 
Horace  has  been  expecting  him  home  all  — " 

"  Uncle  Horace  doesn't  know.  No  one  knows  but 
Adam  Carr  and  —  I.  Sit  down  here  beside  me,  girlie. 
I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story,  and  Adam  Carr  will  vouch 
for  it.  I'm  going  to  tell  Uncle  Horace,  too.  He  can 
do  what  he  likes  with  me  —  hang  me,  if  he  wants  to, — 
but  I've  just  got  to  tell." 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  sofa,  over  in 
the  darkest  corner  of  the  room.  Then,  for  ten  minutes, 
he  delivered  his  soul  to  her.  She  sat  as  one  petrified, 
white  and  still,  staring  with  unblinking  eyes  at  his 
twitching,  distorted  face  all  the  while  he  poured  out  his 
unhappy  story. 

Once  her  gaze  was  diverted,  ever  so  briefly,  to  fol 
low  his  as  it  went  to  the  broad,  motionless  figure  of 
Adam  Carr,  who  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  upon 
the  street. 

"  But,  Mary,  Mr.  Adam  says  it  was  not  murder," 
pleaded  Eric  in  conclusion.  "  He  says  it  was  an  ac 
cident.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  I  who  went 
over  — " 

"  And  he's  been  dead  all  these  years,"  she  murmured. 
"  Out  there  in  the  ocean  ?  " 


288  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Yes." 

"  He  can't  be  washed  ashore?  It  was  a  great  iron 
chest,  you  say  ?  "  she  went  on  dully.  Her  hand  went  to 
her  temple. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Mary,  don't  put  it  — " 

"And  they  think  he  is  still  alive?" 

He  nodded  his  head  slowly,  his  lips  writhing. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  as  if  in  dire  pain.  A  great  shudder 
ran  through  her  body.  "  How  horrible !  Oh,  Eric, 
it  was  not  right !  You  don't  know  how  they've  suffered. 
I  do.  I  have  seen  it  all.  And,  God  pity  me,  I  have 
rejoiced  in  their  misery  more  times  than  I  can  remem 
ber.  I  used  to  laugh, —  yes,  actually  laugh, —  to  see 
Aunt  Rena  sitting  there  in  the  window  hoping  that  he 
would  come  up  the  walk  —  Oh !  "  She  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

He  held  her  tight  in  his  arms,  moaning  a  sort  of  ac 
companiment  to  her  dry,  racking  sobs.  For  a  long 
time  they  rocked  back  and  forth  on  the  frail  little 
sofa,  clinging  to  each  other  as  if  fearing  the  presence 
of  someone  who  stood  ready  to  drag  them  apart  for 
ever. 

"  I  did  kill  a  man,"  groaned  Eric  at  last.  "  They 
said  I  would,  Mary." 

"  Don't,  Eric !     Please  don't !  " 

"  God !  "  burst  from  his  tortured  lips. 

Adam  Carr  turned  at  this.  For  a  minute  he  watched 
them  through  narrow  eyes,  then  walked  over  to  take  his 
stand  before  them. 

Eric  looked  up  at  him,  dully. 

"  Tell  her  I've  told  the  truth,  Mr.  Adam, —  the  hon 
est  truth,"  he  begged. 

"  You've  made  an  utter  fool  of  yourself,"  remarked 
Adam,  but  in  a  way  that  was  not  unkindly. 


THE  STONE  WALL 

Mary  looked  up  in  angry  amazement.  Her  moist 
eyes  swept  the  figure  of  the  speaker  with  a  look  that 
would  have  shrivelled  a  less  imperturbable  person  than 
Adam  Carr. 

"  How  dare  you  say  that  to  my  brother?  "  she  cried. 

Adam  smiled,  almost  approvingly.  "  I'm  not  so  sure 
that  he's  a  fool  after  all,  Mary.  The  secret  is  safe 
with  you.  Now,  if  you  love  him,  help  me  to  protect 
him  against  this  idiotic  thing  he  calls  a  conscience, — 
or  maybe  it's  honour.  I'm  sorry  he  has  told  you  all 
this.  Not  that  it  could  be  dragged  out  of  you,  my 
girl,  with  red-hot  tongs,  but  that  doesn't  help  matters. 
You  — " 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  told  me,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It 
isn't  right  that  he  should  bear  it  alone.  Oh,  Eric,  if 
you  had  only  told  me  years  ago !  I  could  have  helped 
you,  I  could  have  comforted  you.  Why, —  why,  you 
are  not  a  murderer.  It's  preposterous !  " 

"  We're  agreed  on  that,"  said  Adam.  "  But  will 
your  Uncle  Horace  be  so  considerate?" 

Mary  shuddered.  "  Eric,  I  am  so  afraid  of  Uncle 
Horace.  He  will  be  very  bitter.  He  may  — " 

"  See  here,  Mary,"  he  broke  in,  coming  to  his  feet 
with  renewed  resolution  in  his  face,  "  you're  not  going^ 
to  stand  in  my  way,  are  you?  You're  not  going  to 
side  with  Mr.  Adam,  are  you?  If  that's  what  you're 
thinking  of,  let  me  tell  you  it  won't  deter  me.  I'm 
going  to  Uncle  Horace  this  evening."  Turning  to 
Adam,  he  said  with  absolute  finality :  "  You  may  do 
as  you  choose,  Mr.  Adam,  so  far  as  backing  me  up  is 
concerned." 

Adam's  smile  was  a  wry  one.  "  I  don't  occupy  a 
very  creditable  position  in  the  matter,  my  boy.  Please 
don't  overlook  that  little  point.  See  here,"  with  sudden 


290  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

vehemence :  "  do  you  think  you're  playing  fair  with 
me?  Where  does  this  leave  me?  I  did  the  best  I  could 
for  you,  and  now  you  break  faith.  I  did  not  expect  it 
of  you." 

"  You  have  done  a  great  deal  for  me,"  said  Eric  ab 
jectly.  "You  must  consider  me  an  ingrate." 

"  Not  exactly  that.  I  can  understand  how  you  feel. 
It's  not  unnatural.  You  see,  you're  not  morally  guilty 
of  a  crime.  It's  irksome  to  live  as  if  you  were.  I  ad 
mire  your  courage,  your  honesty  — " 

"  It  isn't  courage,"  cried  Eric.  "  It's  cowardice ! 
Good  heaven,  do  you  think  that  if  I  was  as  brave  as 
you  are  I'd  go  into  a  funk  like  this  ?  No  ;  I'm  a  coward. 
I  can't  face  the  music  any  longer.  I've  lost  my  nerve. 
Why,  every  time  Aunt  Rena  looks  at  me  out  of  those 
sad  eyes,  every  time  Uncle  Horace  forgets  himself  and 
lets  the  lines  set  about  his  lips,  I  shudder  all  over.  I'm 
a  coward,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  I  shouldn't  say  that,"  said  Adam  quietly. 

"Well,  it's  the  truth!" 

"  I  still  maintain  that  my  way  is  best,"  said  the  de 
tective.  "  You'd  better  let  me  see  you  out  of  the  woods, 
Eric.  I'm  used  to  it;  I'm  quite  capable.  The  minute 
I  tell  them  that  Chetwynd  died  in  South  America,  they'll 
be  transformed.  It's  anxiety,  dread,  uncertainty  that's 
doing  the  work  for  them  now.  Once  tfiey  know  — " 

"  No,"  said  Eric  firmly,  "  it's  got  to  be  my  way." 

"  Which  means,  in  other  words,  that  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  me  as  a  mill-stone." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Adam,  that  is  one  of  the  reasons." 

Carr  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Then,  I've  nothing 
more  to  say." 

"But  you  will  tell  Uncle  Horace  just  how  it  hap 
pened,  won't  you  ?  "  cried  Mary  anxiously. 


THE  STONE  WALL  291 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  sat  down  in  the  rocker 
a  few  feet  away,  with  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  facing  them.  Although  his  face  did  not  betray 
the  fact  that  he  was  perturbed,  an  involuntary  move 
ment  of  the  hands  served  to  betray  him.  He  took  his 
pipe  from  his  pocket  and  had  it  almost  to  his  lips 
before  he  bethought  himself  and  restored  the  disrepu 
table  thing  to  its  habitual  resting-place. 

Mary  was  watching  the  set,  hard  features  with  nar 
rowing  eyes,  in  which  hope  and  fear  struggled  for 
supremacy.  Eric,  with  his  hands  jammed  into  his  pock 
ets,  stared  sullenly  down  at  the  man. 

"  Give  me  time  to  think,"  muttered  Adam  Carr. 

"  You  surely  will  not  desert  him  now,"  implored  Mary,, 
Her  hand  went  forth  in  search  of  Eric's.  Not  meeting 
it,  the  tense  fingers  clutched  the  skirt  of  his  coat  in  a> 
frenzied  grip. 

"  Horace  may  forgive  Eric,  but  he'll  never  forgive 
me,"  said  Adam  slowly,  calculatingly.  "  There's  only 
one  guilty  person  in  this  case,  and  that  is  me.  Let's  be 
perfectly  frank  about  it.  I  am  the  one  who  has  made 
Horace  suffer,  not  you,  Eric.  Can't  you  see  what  he 
will  do  to  me?  He  will  take  it  all  out  of  me.  He  will 
ruin  me,  destroy  me.  I  won't  say  he  can  put  me  behind 
the  bars,  but  he  can  make  me  the  most  despised  creature 
in  America." 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  all  this  before,"  said 
Mary  sharply. 

"  I  have,"  quoth  Adam,  with  a  frown.  If  he  meant 
to  say  more,  he  was  checked  by  a  sharp,  eager  exclama 
tion  from  Eric. 

"  By  George !  Listen  to  me !  "  His  face  was  bright 
with  a  new  resolve.  He  leaned  forward  eagerly,  his 
voice  dropping  to  a  tense,  insistent  half -whisper.  "  I 


292  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

know  how  I  can  protect  you,  Mr.  Adam.  It's  as  simple 
as  A  B  C.  You  have  stood  by  me;  I'd  be  a  dog  to 
drag  you  down  with  me.  Here's  what  I  can  and  will 
do.  I  will  not  mention  your  name  in  connexion  with 
the  affair.  I  will  not  call  on  you  as  a  witness.  I'll  leave 
you  out  of  it  altogether,  and  take  the  whole  blame  on 
myself.  That  will  let  you  off  clean  as  a  whistle. 
There's  no  reason  why  you  should  be  punished  for — " 

"  Hold  on,  Eric,"  cried  Adam,  rising  slowly  from 
the  chair  to  look  the  impassioned  young  man  squarely 
in  the  eye.  With  an  effort  of  the  will,  he  managed  to 
conceal  the  feeling  of  pride,  of  joy  that  Eric's  words 
produced.  "  There  are  several  obstacles  to  that  sort 
of  a  plan.  First,  leaving  me  out  of  it,  how  are  you 
going  to  account  for  the  disposal  of  the  body  ?  " 

A  slight  shudder  ran  over  Eric's  frame. 

"  Oh,  I  can  say  that  I  weighted  it  with  iron  and 
rowed  out  — " 

"  You  haven't  told  a  lie  in  connexion  with  the  affair 
up  to  date,  have  you  ?  "  asked  Adam  levelly. 

"  Why,  no  —  I  haven't  even  mentioned  — " 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  poor  policy  to  begin 
now?  " 

**  Well,  it's  the  only  way  I  can  think  of  to  keep  your 
name  out  of  it." 

Adam  had  been  thinking  hard  all  this  time.  His 
active,  resourceful  brain  had  been  groping  for  the  means 
with  which  to  successfully  combat  this  rather  primitive, 
quixotic  sense  of  honesty  that  afflicted  Eric.  To  gain 
time:  that  was  Adam's  sole  purpose.  The  real  object 
of  his  visit  to  the  little  Verner  cottage  was  forgotten 
in  the  face  of  this  amazing  revolt.  Strategy  —  ay, 
more  than  that  would  be  required  in  the  handling  of 


THE  STONE  WALL  293 

the  conscience-stricken  man;  harsh,  unfeeling  measures 
would  be  necessary.  Nor  was  he  thinking  only  of  his 
own  safety,  although,  somehow,  it  was  becoming  para 
mount.  He  loved  Eric,  in  a  strange,  bear-like  fashion 
peculiarly  his  own.  He  was  a  far-sighted  man;  he 
foresaw  dark  trials  for  the  boy  if  his  present  purpose 
was  carried  out.  It  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to 
realise  that  he,  too,  had  been  short-sighted.  He  had 
played  a  deep,  ugly  game  without  counting  on  the 
certainty  of  this  very  hour.  Time  now  to  curse  his 
stupidity  and  to  reckon  the  cost,  not  only  to  Eric  but 
to  himself. 

"  But  suppose  I  don't  choose  to  be  left  out  of  it,  what 
then  ?  "  he  demanded  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  I  don't  have  to  implicate  you,"  went  on  Eric  ear 
nestly.  "  You  can  appear  to  be  as  much  surprised  as 
anyone  when  the  truth  comes  out." 

"Just  go  on  being  a  fool  detective,  eh?"  retorted 
[Adam  with  grim  humour.  "  Chasing  a  dead  man  for 
six  years,  eh?  Do  you  think  I  have  no  pride?  'Pon 
my  word,  I'd  rather  be  called  a  scoundrel  than  a  fool." 

Eric  began  to  argue  his  point,  but  the  older  man  cut 
him  off  short  with  the  curt  reminder  that  he  was  old 
enough  to  look  out  for  himself. 

"  See  here,  Eric,"  he  continued,  ignoring  the  hurt 
look  in  his  young  friend's  eyes,  "  we'll  get  right  down 
to  cases.  If  you  go  to  Horace  Blagden  with  your 
tale,  I  shall  have  to  tell  the  world  what  I  know  of  the 
affair.  Do  you  realise  what  that  may  mean?  " 

"  You  saw  the  fight,"  cried  Eric.  "  You  can  prove 
that  it  was  self-defence, —  no,  an  accident." 

"  I  can  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Adam  coldly. 
He  had  thought  of  a  way. 


294  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  stammered  the  other. 

"  Just  this.  I  did  not  see  the  fight.  I  saw  one  blow 
struck.  I  do  not  know  what  went  before.  /  have  only 
your  word  -for  that.  Not  competent  testimony,  my 
boy." 

Eric's  face  was  a  puzzle. 

"I  —  I  don't  see  what  you  are  driving  at,  Mr.  Adam. 
Surely  you  don't  — "  He  stopped  short,  his  lips  twist 
ing  into  a  sickly  smile. 

"Don't  what?" 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  doubt  my  word?  " 

Adam  Carr  shook  his  head.  "  I've  always  said  it 
•was  an  accident,  haven't  I?  " 

"  Certainly.     Then  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  any  court,  knowing  my  inter 
est  in  the  case,  will  accept  my  statement  that  I  believed 
it  to  be  an  accident?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Simply  because  what  I  believe  and  what  actually 
occurred  are  in  no  way  connected  by  fact.  You  did 
strike  him.  I  did  not  see  him  strike  at  you.  So  far 
as  I  can  testify,  you  struck  the  only  blow." 

"Good  heaven!" 

"  Just  think  it  over,  Eric,"  said  Carr  coolly.  "  Don't 
put  your  neck  in  a  noose  in  the  hope  that  I  can  get  it 
out  for  you.  He  was  a  big,  powerful  chap.  It  doesn't 
seem  likely  that  — " 

"  Why  —  why,  curse  you,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I 
struck  him  without  warning?  " 

Eric  was  towering  over  the  square,  heavy  figure,  his 
face  convulsed  by  rage.  His  arm  was  drawn  back  as  if 
to  strike.  The  older  man  did  not  flinch. 

"  You  seem  to  forget  that  I  taught  you  a  blow  that 
would  be  likely  to  catch  any  man  off  his  guard.  It 


THE  STONE  WALL  295 

is  a  blow  that  never  fails  to  do  the  work.  •  That  was 
the  only  blow  I  saw  pass  between  you  and  him.  As  I 
said  before:  just  think  it  over." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  strode  toward  the  door. 
Eric  sprang  after  him,  rage  giving  way  before  appre 
hension  and  dismay. 

"  Are  you  turning  against  me  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Wait ! 
Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  my  room  in  the  hotel.  Day  after 
to-morrow  we  may  hear  of  Chetwynd's  death  in  South 
America.  I  am  expecting  a  message  to  that  effect. 
Believe  me,  I  hope  to  receive  the  news  before  you  go  to 
your  uncle  with  this  tale  of  yours.  It  would  hurt  me 
more  than  I  can  tell,  to  be  called  to  the  witness  stand 
against  you,  Eric.  I  am  glad  that  I  came  here  to-day. 
A  good  fairy  must  have  sent  me.  I  came  for  an  en 
tirely  different  mission,  but  —  upon  my  soul,  I've  quite 
forgotten  what  it  was.  Good-bye." 

He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  the  amazed, 
panic-stricken  young  man,  but  walked  calmly  out  of 
the  door  and  into  the  street,  an  ominous  figure  that 
filled  their  eyes  until  it  was  lost  behind  the  hedges, — 
and  even  longer,  for  they  had  him  in  mind  for  many 
minutes. 

They  had  followed  him  to  the  door.  Mary  clung  to 
her  brother's  rigid  arm,  staring  down  the  grey,  wind 
swept  street,  a  great  and  growing  dread  in  her  lovely 
eyes. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Eric?  "  she  asked  dully. 

He  started,  and  turned  to  look  down  into  her  eyes, 
as  if  suddenly  aware  of  her  nearness  to  him. 

"  Do?  "  he  asked  blankly.  "  Why,  he's  gone.  He's 
in  Baxter  Street  by  this  time." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him,"  she  said,  a  shrill  note 


296  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

beginning  to  make  itself  felt  in  her  voice.  "  I  mean 
about  going  to  Uncle  Horace." 

"  I  can't  believe  that  Adam  has  turned  against  me," 
went  on  Eric,  as  if  stupefied.  "  But  there  was  some 
thing  ugly  in  what  he  said,  wasn't  there  ?  It  —  it  was 
like  a  threat.  God !  It  -was  a  threat !  " 

She  shivered.  "  Is  this  all  real,  Eric  ?  Am  I  having 
another  of  those  terrible  dreams?  I  am  so  cold.  Seel 
My  hands  are  like  ice.  I . —  I  — " 

He  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  "  God  forgive  me,  little 
sister !  I've  blighted  your  whole  life.  Why, —  oh,  why 
did  I  tell  you  this  beastly  thing?  Mr.  Adam  was  right. 
He  did  his  best  to  stop  me.  I'm  a  beast,  a  — " 

"  Don't,  Errie, —  don't!  Oh,  brother,  brother!  My 
big,  good  brother !  " 

He  drew  her  back  into  the  room,  still  holding  her  in 
his  arms.  For  a  long  time  they  stood  motionless  and 
silent  in  the  middle  of  the  little  parlour,  dry-eyed,  dry- 
lipped  and  unseeing.  She  shivered  again. 

"  Close  the  door,  Errie,"  she  murmured.  "  It's  queer 
how  cold  the  air  has  grown.  It's  off  the  sea.  When 
did  the  wind  change  ?  " 

"I'll  stir  up  the  fire  in  the  grate,"  he  said,  with 
nervous  haste.  "  It's  the  dampness."  He  closed  the 
door. 

She  watched  him  poke  up  the  embers  and  pile  on  the 
chunks  of  wood. 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  the  change,"  he  said  mechanically. 
"  It  is  off  the  sea." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  he  has  gone  ?  "  she  asked, 
drawing  near  to  the  grate. 

He  did  not  look  up.  She  noted  the  greyish,  blood 
less  look  of  his  neck  and  half-averted  cheek. 

"  We  were  standing  at  the  corner  above  the  Massa- 


THE  STONE  WALL  297 

soit  House  when  Uncle  Horace  somehow  felt  his  pres 
ence.  That  was  not  more  then  ten  minutes  before  I  — 
What  are  you  asking,  Mary?  Excuse  me." 

"  Where  has  he  gone  ?  "  she  repeated  shrilly. 

"  See  here,  Mary,  I'm  in  for  something  nasty,"  he 
exclaimed,  coming  to  his  feet  and  running  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  once  more.  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
do.  If  I  go  to  Uncle  Horace  now,  Adam  Carr  will 
turn  squarely  against  me.  That's  plain.  Somehow,  I 
can't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame  him,  either.  I  sup 
pose  I  ought  to  consider  his  position  as  well  as  my  own. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  can't  go  on  this  way  any  longer. 
It's  unbearable.  I  can't  even  look  at  Uncle  Horace 
and  Aunt  Rena  without  cursing  myself  for  a  beast. 
Adam  Carr  has  never  let  up  on  them  —  not  for  an  in 
stant.  He's  been  a  devil,  so  far  as  they  are  concerned. 
I  should  have  stopped  it  long  ago." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  stared,  wide-eyed, 
at  the  crackling,  snapping  logs.  Mary  stood  at  his 
elbow,  looking  down  upon  him,  her  eyes  full  of  love 
and  pity.  Presently  she  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  believe  Uncle  Horace  can  forgive  you, 
Eric,"  she  said. 

"  He  can't  forgive  me  for  letting  it  go  on  in  the  way 
it  has,"  he  groaned.  "  Why,  it's  been  hell  on  earth  for 
them,  Mary." 

"  I  pity  them  now,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  never  can 
love  them  —  never!  But  I  do  pity  them.  If  there  is 
anything  I  can  do,  Errie  dear,  to  make  life  easier,  hap 
pier  for  them,  I  shall  try  my  best  to  — " 

He  did  not  look  up,  but  as  she  hesitated  he  said 
quickly : 

"  They  don't  want  you  to  marry  Jack  Payson." 

"  Oh,  Errie,  can't  they  overcome  — " 


298  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

M  There's  a  great  and  sufficient  reason  for  their  op 
position,  dear.  Something  you  don't  understand,  but 
I  do.  Adam  Carr*s  greatest  triumph  over  Uncle  Hor 
ace  would  come  the  day  you  married  Jack  Payson." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  cried,  bewildered. 

He  checked  the  impulse  to  blurt  out  the  horrid  truth, 
as  he  took  it  to  be, —  concerning  John  Payson.  She 
loved  the  fellow.  Why  strike  at  a  heart  that  was  al 
ready  sore  and  bleeding?  Why  add  another  cruel  slash 
to  the  wounds  that  perhaps  were  marking  it  for  life? 
And  then,  up  from  some  dark,  secret  recess  of  his  own 
heart,  came  an  astonishing  throb  of  pity  for  John  Pay- 
son;  a  curious  revolt  within  himself.  After  all,  what 
wrong  had  John  Payson  done?  Why  strike  an  inno 
cent,  unsuspecting  man  in  the  back?  Why  inflict  a 
wound  that  could  never  be  closed? 

"  It's  something  that  dates  back  to  the  time  when 
Payson's  father  was  alive,"  equivocated  he. 

"  He  was  lost  at  sea.     Were  they  enemies  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  that  Uncle  Horace  hated  Jack  Payson's 
father." 

"  Then  why  did  he  put  Jack  in  the  bank  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  got  him  out  of  it  soon  enough,  didn't 
he?  "  demanded  her  brother,  hard  put  for  explanations. 

She  waited  a  moment.  "  There  is  something  you  are 
holding  back,  Eric,"  she  said,  closing  her  eyes.  "  How 
would  you  feel,  dear,  if  I  were  to  hint  that  Joan  Bright 
isn't  what  she  ought  to  be?  " 

"Joan!"  he* cried  out,  a  new  despair  rising  in  his 
voice.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  "  What 
will  she  think  when  she  hears  what  I  have  come  to  ?  " 

"  If  she  loves  you,  she  will  not  let  anything  come 
between,"  said  Mary,  slowly,  significantly.  The  true 
appeal  in  her  words  was  lost  on  him.  He  walked  over 


THE  STONE  WALL  299 

to  the  window  and  stood  there,  staring  blankly  out  into 
the  little  garden.  For  a  long  time  she  kept  her  eyes 
on  his  straight,  tense  figure.  Then  she  moved  up  closer 
to  the  fire,  resting  a  hand  on  the  mantelpiece  as  she 
looked  down  into  the  writhing  flames.  Finally  her 
shoulders  relaxed  and  drooped,  and  her  whipped  gaze 
went  once  more  to  the  back  of  him  who  was  so  racked 
and  harassed. 

She  crossed  slowly  to  his  side. 

"  Eric,"  she  said,  her  voice  very  low  and  unwavering, 
"  I  will  give  Jack  up  if  it  will  make  you  happy.  I  — 
I  shan't  see  him  again." 

"Good  heaven,  Mary,  you  —  you  would  do  that?" 
he  cried  hoarsely.  "  Why,  little  sister,  you  —  you  — 
No,  by  heaven,  you  do  not  make  me  happy.  You  make 
me  feel  so  small,  so  puny,  so  ashamed  of — " 

"  Don't,  Eric,  I  beg  of  you ! "  She  spoke  rapidly, 
jerkily.  "  I  mean  it.  I  will  try  to  make  them  a  little 
bit  happier  than  they  are.  I  will  do  this  for  you  — 
She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  the  soft, 
warm  glow  in  her  eyes  fading  like  a  flash.  In  its  stead 
came  an  almost  venomous  glitter,  completely  transform 
ing  her  lovely  face.  "  But,  wait!  What  am  I  saying? 
Why  should  I  do  this  for  them  ?  They  may  try  to  hang 
you,  Eric." 

He  took  a  long,  deep  breath.  "  I  can't  stay  in  the 
house  any  longer,  Mary.  I've  got  to  get  out  where 
I  can  breathe."  He  started  toward  the  door,  catching 
up  his  hat  as  he  passed  by  the  table. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  don't  know  —  oh,  anywhere.  Listen !  Can  you 
hear  the  breakers?  A  mile  and  a  half  to  Stone  Wall. 
There's  a  big  sea  running.  Mary,  I  haven't  been  on 
Stone  Wall  in  six  years.  I'm  going  out  there  now.  I'm 


300  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

going  to  face  the  thing  I've  dreaded  all  these  years. 
He's  out  there  somewhere.  He  hasn't  moved.  It's  hor 
rible  to  think  of.  But,  I'm  going  to  smash  this  con 
temptible  fear,  once  and  for  all.  I'll  be  back  by  dinner 
time.  Out  there  I  can  think  it  over,  as  Adam  says. 
Don't  worry,  dear,  I  will  not  — " 

"  I  am  going  with  you,  Errie,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  No ! "  he  cried,  but  she  was  rushing  off  for  her  hat 
and  mackintosh. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  crossed  the  bleak,  wind-blown 
stretch  of  meadow  land  and  came  out  upon  the  rocks. 
They  had  not  spoken  in  all  this  time.  The  stiff  gale 
that  blew  in  from  the  Atlantic  drove  the  words  back 
into  their  throats.  A  fine  drizzle  smote  them  in  the  face. 
They  had  not  noticed  that  it  was  misting  when  they  left 
the  cottage. 

"  This  way,"  he  managed  to  say  when  they  came 
to  the  forlorn  coast-road  which  wound  through  the  rocks. 
"  We'll  cross  the  bridge.  If  you  care  to  look,  you  may 
see  where  he  fell.  The  clump  of  vines,  too." 

She  kept  pace  with  him,  uttering  no  word. 

They  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  bridge,  leaning 
side  by  side  on  the  stout,  new  rail  to  look  down  into 
the  ravine.  He  pointed  to  the  jagged  rocks  and  then 
to  the  mass  of  vines  behind  which  Chetwynd's  body  had 
been  secreted  on  that  memorable  day.  Then  they  passed 
on,  skirting  Bud's  Rock,  and  bent  their  bodies  against 
the  gale  that  shrieked  across  the  rocky  waste.  It  was 
a  chill,  raw  wind  that  beat  in  their  faces  and  cut  through 
the  clothes  they  wore,  an  insistent  wind  that  seemed 
bent  on  keeping  them  back  from  the  brow  of  the  cliffs. 

At  last  they  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  great  Stone 
Wall,  with  the  ocean  snarling  madly  at  the  crags,  two 
hundred  feet  below.  Never  had  they  seen  the  sea  so 


THE  STONE  WALL  301 

wild,  so  furious,  so  ugly.  It  came  in,  black  and  devil 
ish,  with  none  of  the  rollicking  blues  and  greens  that  they 
were  so  used  to  seeing;  nothing  but  great  black  things 
with  hoary  crests  and  foaming  maws,  crashing  against 
the  huge  rocks  that  stood  guard  in  front  of  the  palisade, 
swirling  in  between  and  bounding  back  again  as  if  sur 
prised  to  find  resistance  so  strong. 

A  drab  sky  seemed  to  flatten  itself  like  the  low  top 
of  a  circus  tent  over  the  whole  world,  sloughing  off  into 
a  thick,  impenetrable  bank  of  fog  which  brought  the 
bleak  horizon  close  to  hand,  and  out  of  which  slipped 
shadowy  billows  that  took  vivid  shape  as  they  raced 
into  the  arena.  On  they  came  with  ever-increasing  size 
and  velocity,  only  to  shatter  themselves  against  the 
mammoth  barrier  that  had  defied  them  for  ages  and 
ages.  They  struck  with  splintering  force,  roaring  like 
a  thousand  cannons,  swishing  with  the  mighty  hiss  of 
a  hundred  cataracts,  and  then  ground  their  way  back 
for  another  and  mightier  assault. 

The  puny  spectators  at  the  top  of  the  cliff  braced 
themselves  against  the  wind  and  stared  out  over  the 
majestic  foe  of  all  mankind.  Mary  pointed  to  a  vast 
cleft  in  the  wall  far  to  the  left;  the  fury  there  was 
greater  than  anywhere  else,  the  struggle  more  sublime. 

"  It's  like  a  Paul  Daugherty  painting,  Eric.  How 
terrible  it  is  to-day !  "  she  cried  in  his  ear. 

He  was  looking  far  out  across  the  bounding  waves, 
his  eyes  set  on  a  certain  spot  in  the  shifting  scape. 

"  The  sea  was  like  a  mill-pond  that  night,  Mary. 
How  different  now.  It  seems  as  though  it  is  working 
up  all  this  rage  for  my  especial  benefit.  It's  a 
grewsome  thought,  but  do  you  know  I  have  a  feeling 
that  —  that  our  cousin  is  doing  all  this.  He's  trying 
to  burst  the  sides  of  that  staunch  old  chest,  just  as  the 


302  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

genii  of  old  tried  to  split  the  jar  that  the  fisherman 
found  and  opened.  See!  Follow  my  finger,  Mary, 
Out  there  beyond  Lord's  Point,  eight  miles  or  more, 
where  it's  three  hundred  fathoms  deep, —  that's  where 
Chetwynd  lies.  No  sea  is  strong  enough  to  move  that 
coffin  of  his.  It's  buried  too  deep.  All  the  grave- 
robbers  in  the  world  could  not  snatch  Chetwynd  from 
the  grave  he's  in.  No!  He's  there  forever  and  ever. 
Isn't  it  horrible !  " 

"  Come,  Eric,  let  us  go  back.  Let  us  go  far  away 
from  here.  Why  should  we  stay  in  Corinth?  Why 
stay  here  by  the  sea?  Think  of  the  great,  dry,  peace 
ful  West,  where  the  mountains  — " 

"  Listen,"  he  broke  in,  his  voice  rising  to  a  monoto 
nous,  sing-song  pitch,  "  listen  to  me.  The  fishing  off 
the  Point  used  to  be  the  best  along  the  coast.  They 
tell  me  there  is  no  catch  at  all  in  these  days,  and  hasn't 
been  for  half  a  dozen  years.  The  great  catches  are 
no  more.  The  fishermen  say  that  the  stretch  from  here 
to  the  Eddy  Islands  is  hoodooed.  They  can't  under 
stand  it.  But  I  could  tell  them,  Mary,  I  could  tell 
them.  There's  something  out  there  that  scares  them 
away,  that  — " 

"  Why,  Eric ! "  she  cried.  "  You  are  losing  your 
mind.  What  a  silly  thing  to  say.  As  if  that  could 
make  any  difference  to  a  fish !  Don't  be  ridiculous." 

"Well,  it's  queer,  isn't  it?"  he  insisted.  "You'll 
have  to  admit  it."  He  stared  out  across  the  tumbling 
waters,  white  fear  in  his  wide-spread  eyes.  She  gave 
him  a  swift,  furtive  look,  and  then  fell  to  trembling  all 
over.  Was  he  going  mad? 

"  Come  away,  Eric,"  she  cried,  tightening  her  grasp 
on  his  arm.  "  It's  horrid  here.  Let  us  go  back.  It's 
tea  time.  See,  it  will  soon  be  dark." 


THE  STONE  WALL  303 

"  I  wonder  —  I  wonder  if  it  could  be  possible  for 
waves  as  big  as  these  to  wash  an  iron  chest  ashore. 
Maybe  it's  coming  now,  rolling  over  and  over  on  the 
bottom  of — " 

She  screamed  aloud. 

"Don't!" 

He  had  drawn  close  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice, 
the  better  to  search  the  foaming  crannies  far  below 
with  dreadful,  eager  eyes.  After  a  moment,  he 
obeyed  the  frantic  tugging  of  her  hands  and  fell  back 
to  a  less  perilous  footing,  a  short  laugh  cracking  on 
his  lips. 

"  No ; "  he  said,  with  a  note  of  triumph  in  his  voice, 
"  it  can't  come  ashore.  It's  out  there  to  stay." 

"  Come,  Eric,"  she  pleaded. 

He  threw  his  arm  around  her.  "  What  a  beast  I  am 
to  keep  you  up  here  in  the  wind  and  rain.  Why,  you're 
drenched.  You're  half-frozen."  Swiftly  aroused  to 
compassion  and  concern  for  her,  he  led  her  away  from 
the  wild  brink  to  a  less  exposed  spot  in  the  lee  of  a 
jutting  rock.  Here  they  were  sheltered  from  the  wind 
and  the  freezing  drizzle;  but  the  gale  shrieked  about 
their  ears,  and  the  sea  roared  all  the  more  loudly  be 
cause  they  had  slunk  back  from  its  fury.  Great  gulls 
careened  past  them,  their  screams  no  more  than  sharp, 
staccato  barks,  as  of  a  dog  in  flight. 

The  terror  in  Mary's  eyes  was  most  distressing  to 
him.  She  was  trembling  violently.  Her  wet  hair  had 
blown  across  her  face.  Her  figure  was  limp,  pathetic. 

"  We'll  go  back,  dearie,"  he  cried.  "  I'm  sorry  you 
came.  You  will  be  ill  for  all  this.  I  should  have  come 
alone.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  do.  I  wanted  to  smash 
this  fear  and  dread  I've  had  for  years.  Well,  I've  done 
it.  I'm  no  longer  afraid  of  Stone  Wall  or  the  sea  out 


304  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

yonder.  I  can  laugh  at  them  and  at  myself  for  having 
been  afraid.  I  can  laugh  at  — " 

Suddenly  he  stopped  as  if  petrified.  Even  as  he  ut 
tered  his  hapless  boast,  there  came  floating  up  to  him  on 
the  wings  of  the  gale,  a  harsh,  never-to-be-forgotten 
laugh,  mocking,  distant,  unlocated ;  came  floating  up  as 
a  part  of  the  gibbering  turmoil,  out  of  the  wind-racked 
Atlantic,  out  of  Nowhere! 

"  Good  God ! "  he  gasped,  shrinking  back  against  the 
rock  with  the  glare  of  horror  in  his  eyes. 

She  looked  at  him  in  utter  amazement  —  and  dread. 
The  terror  in  his  face  was  something  she  was  never  to 
forget. 

"  Eric,"  she  whined.     "  What  is  it?  " 

His  voice  was  hoarse.     "Did  —  did  you  hear  it?'* 

"  There  is  someone  out  here  besides  ourselves,  Eric," 
cried  she,  "  so,  don't  be  afraid.  We  are  not  alone,  dear. 
I  heard  someone  — " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  a  glad  shout.  "  You  — 
you  did  hear  it,  then?  You  heard  the  laugh?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Tramps,  I  suppose,  sheltered  in  the 
caves  over  — " 

"  Thank  God !  Thank  God !  "  he  shouted.  "  If  you 
heard  it,  too,  then  it  must  have  been  real." 

"Real?  The  laugh?  Why, —  why,  Eric,  how 
queerly  you  act.  What  of  it?  Was  it  the  laugh  that 
—  Ah !  See !  There  they  are, —  two  of  them." 

She  was  pointing  excitedly  along  the  crest  of  the 
cliff  toward  the  right. 

In  bold  relief  against  the  leaden  sky,  the  figures  of 
two  men  stood  out,  clearly  defined.  Not  more  than  one 
hundred  yards  separated  the  two  couples  on  this  bleak, 
supposedly  deserted  stretch  of  Stone  Wall. 

In  sheer  amazement  the  Midthornes  gazed  at  their 


THE  STONE  WALL  305 

fellow-adventurers.  Slowly  into  their  intelligence  stole 
the  knowledge  that  these  men  were  not  strangers.  They 
knew  them  well!  Great,  rain-coated  men  were  they, 
wind-blown  and  sturdy,  and  they  looked  not  toward 
them,  but  out  to  sea. 

Again  the  raucous  laugh  was  wafted  across  the  rocks. 

"  By  heaven,  Mary,  it's  Adam  Carr ! "  cried  Eric, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  a  great  weakness  assail 
ing  him. 

Mary  was  staring  hard  at  Adam  Carr's  companion,  a 
tall  man  in  storm-hat  and  coat. 

"  And  John,"  she  cried,  amazed.     "  John  Payson !  " 

At  that  instant  the  two  men  turned,  as  if  so  ordered 
by  some  strange,  compelling  force,  and  looked  squarely 
at  the  spot  where  the  Midthornes  stood. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  BEGGAB  COMES   KNOCKING 

FOR  many  seconds  they  stared  intently  at  each  other. 
It  was  quite  evident  that  John  Payson  had  not  been 
aware  of  this  propinquity  until  the  present  moment. 
His  surprise  was  apparent  even  at  so  great  a  distance. 
Not  so  Adam  Carr.  There  could  be  no  doubting  the 
fact  that  he  had  known  all  along  of  the  Midthornes* 
presence  on  Stone  Wall.  Either  he  had  followed  them 
to  the  wild,  lonely  spot,  or  he  had  exercised  that  amaz 
ing  sense  of  clairvoyancy  which  he  possessed,  guessing 
correctly  that  Eric  would  venture  first  of  all  to  the  scene 
of  his  so-called  crime  before  going  to  his  uncle  with  the 
confession. 

At  last  Payson  sent  an  eager  cry  across  the  rocks  to 
Mary,  calling  out  her  name  as  he  abruptly  left  his 
companion's  side  to  make  his  way  toward  her.  Adam 
Carr  sprang  after  him,  clutching  his  arm.  The  younger 
man  came  to  a  standstill,  plainly  amazed  by  the  act  of 
his  companion.  A  moment  later  they  were  to  be  seen  in 
earnest  conversation,  the  older  man  apparently  calm  and 
obdurate,  the  younger  expostulating  vehemently. 
Thrice  the  latter  sought  to  shake  off  the  retaining 
hand. 

Finally  they  gave  over  talking  and  turned  to  con 
template  the  couple  in  the  lee  of  the  rock.  Two  strong 
figures  were  they,  silhouettes  against  the  grey,  unlovely 
sky,  defying  the  wind  that  scoured  the  cliffs. 

"  Eric,"  said  Mary,  her  lips  close  to  his  ear,  "  is  there 

really  a  resemblance,  or  is  my  mind  so  full  of  Adam 

306 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          307 

Carr  that  I  can  see  no  one  else?  Isn't  it  odd  that  I 
should—" 

"  It's  not  a  fancy,  Mary,"  said  he  gravely,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  two  men.  "  The  likeness  is 
there.  It's  real.  Now,  maybe  you  can  begin  to  un 
derstand." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  she  cried  in  perplexity. 
Suddenly  light  burst  upon  her.  "  Oh,  Eric,  you  — 
you  can't  mean  that  —  that  he  — " 

"  See  for  yourself,  dear.  It's  odd  you  never  noticbii 
it  before." 

A  low  moan  fell  from  her  lips.  She  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder,  blotting  out  the  fantastic  vision 
that  smote  her  so  cruelly. 

He  was  quick  to  comfort  her.  "  Nothing  is  sure  in 
this  world,  Mary  darling,  and  this  may  be  a  co-incidence, 
a  freak  of  Nature." 

"  Take  me  home,  Eric,"  came  in  smothered  tones  from 
his  shoulder. 

He  glanced  toward  the  men  on  the  brow  of  the  cliff. 
Adam  Carr  waved  his  hand  in  a  friendly  fashion,  and  an 
instant  later  John  Payson  did  the  same.  Then,  with 
seeming  reluctance,  he  turned  to  follow  the  older  man. 
Side  by  side,  they  hurried  away  from  the  edge  of  the 
Stone  Wall,  urged  to  swifter  strides  by  the  wind  at  their 
backs.  Not  once  did  they  look  behind. 

"  They're  going,  Mary,"  said  Eric. 

She  raised  her  eyes.  Together  they  watched  the  two 
men  until  they  were  lost  to  sight  among  the  rocks  that 
lined  the  distant  roadway. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  him,  Eric,"  she  moaned.  "  I  am 
afraid  of  Jack  now.  There  was  something  terrible 
about  him,  something  I'd  never  seen  before, —  never 
even  dreamed  of." 


SOS  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  If  he  isn't  the  son  of  Ad  — " 

"  Stop ! "  she  almost  screamed.  "  I  don't  want  you 
to  say  it.  You  may  be  wrong.  God  may  have  played 
a  trick  on  us,  on  every  one.  I'm  beginning  to  think 
that  God  isn't  above  small  things  like  that.  No,  no! 
We  must  never  speak  of  it.  It  hurts,  Eric,  oh,  how  it 
hurts." 

"  On  my  soul,  Mary,  I'm  sorry  for  him.  He  is  a 
decent  chap.  I  — " 

"  He  is  a  man,  Errie,  and  I  love  him.  I  love  him ! 
I  shall  love  him  till  I  die." 

"  But  you  can  see  how  impossible  it  will  be  for  you 
to—" 

"  Haven't  I  said  I  would  give  him  up  ?  "  she  cried, 
beating  upon  his  breast  with  her  clenched  hands. 
"  Don't  ask  me  to  say  anything  more." 

"  Maybe  it's  all  right,  after  all,"  he  began,  but  she 
stopped  him. 

"  If  it's  all  right,  why  should  he  be  out  here  to-day 
with  that  man?  No!  He  stands  with  Adam  Carr  and 
he  stands  for  Adam  Carr.  He  is  against  you.  There 
is  a  greater  influence  than  my  love  at  work  with  him." 

"  He  tried  to  come  to  you." 

"  Then,  what  was  it  that  held  him  back?  "  she  de 
manded  fiercely. 

He  held  her  off,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes,  and 
spoke  steadily,  even  calmly. 

"  He  had  just  been  listening  to  Adam  Carr's  story  of 
the  thing  that  lies  out  there  in  the  sea.  That's  why. 
He  knows  about  me,  Mary.  That's  what  held  him 
back." 

"  Eric,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "  I  think  we'd  bet 
ter  tell  everything  to  Uncle  Horace." 

"  Yes,"  said  he.     "  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  do  it." 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          309 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,  dear." 

"  Why  put  it  off?  " 

"  Please,  Errie, —  just  because  I  ask  it  of  you." 

A  sharp  exclamation  fell  from  his  lips.  The  next 
instant  he  was  pointing  in  the  direction  of  Bud's  Rock. 
A  man  was  hurrying  toward  them,  a  distant,  wind-fight 
ing  figure  that  came  on  swiftly,  regardless  of  the  rough, 
uneven  going  and  the  crevasses.  He  held  his  hand  be 
fore  his  nose  and  mouth,  to  breathe  the  better  in  the  face 
of  the  gale. 

"  It's  Jack !  "  she  cried  eagerly. 

Her  brother's  arms  dropped  from  her  shoulders,  and 
a  muttered  word  of  execration  ground  its  way  through 
his  teeth.  Then,  with  no  word  of  explanation,  he  ad 
vanced  to  meet  the  on-comer,  holding  her  tightly  by  the 
arm. 

Half-way  across  the  bleak  plateau,  John  Payson 
stopped,  planting  himself  squarely  in  their  path.  There 
he  waited  until  they  came  up.  Eric  would  have  passed 
him  by,  with  a  hoarse  command  to  Mary,  but  her  lover 
shifted  his  position,  obstructing  the  way. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  demanded  Eric,  coming  to  a 
standstill  and  regarding  him  with  blazing  eyes. 

"  I  want  Mary,"  said  Jack  Payson  resolutely. 
"  You're  a  beast,  Eric,  to  bring  her  out  here  on  a  day 
like  this.  Do  you  understand?  A  beast." 

Mary  swirled  in  front  of  Eric,  throwing  herself  on 
his  breast,  and  clinging  to  him.  She  did  not  utter  a 
word,  but  the  act  was  significant. 

For  a  full  minute  her  brother  glared  at  Payson. 
Then  his  anger  fled  before  justice  and  reason. 

"  You're  right,  Payson,"  he  exclaimed  miserably.  "  A 
selfish  beast.  Will  you  come  along  with  us?  Help 
me  to  get  her  back  to  the  house." 


310  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Without  a  word,  Payson  sprang  to  her  side,  clasping 
one  of  her  arms  in  his.  Together  they  half -carried  her 
across  the  wild,  open  plateau,  across  the  ill-fated  bridge 
and  into  the  protected  highway. 

She  was  limp  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  and  the 
pain  that  was  in  her  heart.  In  the  shelter  of  the  defile, 
she  begged  him  to  stop  until  she  could  recover  her 
breath  and  her  lost  composure. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it,  Mary,"  Payson  was  saying,  a 
world  of  anxiety  in  his  voice.  "  I  couldn't  leave  you 
out  there.  Adam  tried  to  keep  me  from  coming  back, 
but  I  — " 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,  Jack,"  she  cried.  "  I  won 
dered  why  you  went  away  without  — " 

"  Here,  here ! "  expostulated  Eric.  "  Are  you  for 
getting  what  you  said  back  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  faltered ;  "  but  I  can't  help  saying  this, 
Errie:  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do."  It  was  a 
wail  that  cut  him  like  a  sharp-edged  sword. 

He  turned  upon  Payson. 

"  What  were  you  doing  out  there  with  Adam  Carr  ?  '" 
he  demanded. 

"  I'm  not  answerable  to  you,"  retorted  Payson. 

"  Don't  quarrel,"  pleaded  Mary.  "  Please  don't 
quarrel." 

"  What  was  Adam  Carr  saying  to  you  ?  "  went  on 
Eric  recklessly. 

"  See  here,  Midthorne,"  began  the  other  hotly, 
"  you've  said  some  ugly  things  to  me  lately.  I  don't 
care  to  hear  anything  more  from  you.  Adam  Carr  is 
my  friend.  He's  yours,  too.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  for — " 

"  What  was  he  telling  you  ?  "  repeated  Eric. 

Payson  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  then  thought  better; 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          311 

of  the  impulse.  He  contented  himself  with  a  long,  hard, 
even  suspicious,  scrutiny  of  the  questioner's  face. 

"  Some  other  time,  if  you  please,"  he  said  curtly.  "  It 
is  our  duty  to  get  poor  Mary  home  as  quickly  as  possi 
ble.  Come,  dear." 

But  she  clung  to  Eric,  ignoring  the  outstretched 
hand.  Pay  son  fell  away  as  if  he  had  been  slapped  in 
the  face.  He  kept  pace  with  them  all  the  way  to  the 
.Verner  Cottage,  but  not  a  word  fell  from  his  lips  in  all 
that  distance. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  came  to  the  gate;  the 
sharp,  chill  mist  was  still  blowing.  Mary's  teeth  were 
chattering. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Jack  Payson. 

Eric  hesitated.  He  had  been  thinking  hard  all  the 
way  up  from  the  coast,  but  his  thoughts  were  not  hard. 
Somehow  the  manliness,  the  self-restraint,  the  very 
thoughtf ulness  of  J  ohn  Payson  wrought  a  subtle  change 
in  his  estimate  of  ths  man.  He  was  wondering  if  he  was 
not  really  grateful  to  him,  if  he  was  not,  after  all,  more 
than  grateful.  Years  ago  he  had  been  sorry  for  him. 
Was  he  not  sorry  for  him  now? 

"  Won't  you  come  in,  Jack? "  he  asked  abruptly, 
holding  the  gate  open. 

Payson  stared,  first  at  one,  then  the  other.  He  be 
gan  to  stammer  an  apology  for  hurrying  on. 

"  Come  in  to  the  fire,"  said  Mary,  looking  at  him  over 
Eric's  shoulder. 

The  look  in  those  dark,  piteous  eyes  decided  him. 

"  I  want  to  be  friendly  with  you,  Eric,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  want  to  speak  with  you  about  something  that  has  just 
transpired.  I  will  come  in  for  a  few  minutes.  First 
of  all,  Mary  must  get  out  of  her  wet  clothes.  And  you, 
too.  Something  hot  to  drink." 


312  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  And  bed  for  her,"  added  Eric  meaningly. 

They  entered  the  cottage.  The  room  was  quite  dark, 
except  for  the  space  directly  in  front  of  the  dying  em 
bers  in  the  fire-place.  The  trio,  with  their  shadows, 
filled  the  corner  of  the  room  nearest  the  door,  where  they 
had  paused  at  a  word  from  Eric. 

He  glanced  keenly  about  the  room,  then  gave  vent  to 
a  short,  apologetic  laugh. 

"  I  half  expected  to  find  Adam  Carr  sitting  here,"  he 
said. 

"  He  took  the  six-twenty  for  New  York,"  said  Pay~ 
son. 

Eric  started.     "  Are  you  sure?  "  uneasily. 

"  Certainly.  At  least,  that  was  his  intention.  He 
had  time  to  make  it.  We  drove  to  Stone  Wall,  you 
see." 

"  Then  you  got  there  after  we  did?  " 

Payson  smiled  faintly,  almost  ironically.  "  Spies 
don't  precede  their  victims  as  a  general  thing,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  replenish  the  fire  while  you  are  changing." 

Mary  left  the  room  without  once  turning  her  bent 
head  to  look  at  her  would-be  protector.  Eric  followed 
her.  He  was  back  in  a  moment,  however.  Payson 
looked  up  from  the  pile  of  wood  and  kindling  over  which 
he  stooped. 

"  Take  off  your  wet  shoes  and  stockings,"  he  ordered 
sharply. 

"  Time  enough  for  that,"  said  Midthorne,  coming  up 
to  stand  over  him.  "  What  were  you  doing  out  there  ? 
Quick,  before  Mary  comes  back." 

"  I'll  fix  the  fire  first,"  said  Payson  deliberately. 

Neither  spoke  for  three  or  four  minutes,  while  he  laid 
the  paper  and  kindling.  When  the  fresh,  blue  flame* 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          313 

began  to  dodge  in  and  out  among  the  logs,  he  arose  and 
faced  Mary's  brother,  coolly  brushing  the  wood-dust 
from  his  hands. 

"  We  were  out  there  to  look  at  the  place  where  my 
father  was  lost.  My  father,  mind  you,"  he  said  with 
curious  emphasis. 

Eric's  satirical  smile  was  not  lost  on  him. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  off  your  sou'wester,  Pay- 
son?  "  he  said,  irrelevantly.  "  It's  dripping  all  over 
the  rug." 

"  I'll  stand  on  the  hearth-stone,"  said  the  other. 
They  were  sparring  for  time  in  a  most  deliberate  man 
ner. 

"  Then,  move  over  a  bit.     I'm  also  wet." 

They  stood  side  by  side,  with  their  backs  to  the  blaze : 
two  tall,  tense  figures  that  waited.  Outside  the  wind 
shrieked  and  crooned  by  turns;  the  windows  rattled  in 
their  frames;  a  soft,  insistent  beating  on  the  panes,  as 
of  tiny  insects  hurtling,  told  of  the  rain  that  blew. 

"  I  waited  at  old  Jabe's  cottage  for  Adam,"  said 
Payson  abruptly,  looking  straight  before  him,  "  I'd 
been  worrying  over  something  you  put  into  my  head, 
Midthorne.  I  couldn't  go  to  my  mother  about  it. 
Adam  was  the  only  one  who  could  explain.  He  did  not 
hesitate.  I  had  a  buggy  there.  We  drove  out  to  Stone 
Wall.  He  showed  me  where  my  father's  schooner  was 
last  seen  afloat,  and  where  the  wreckage  came  in,  and 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  crew.  At  the  mouth  of  the 
ravine.  My  father  went  down  and  never  came  ashore. 
The  schooner  is  out  there  now,  on  the  bottom,  half-way 
to  Eddy's  Islands,  a  hundred  fathoms  down.  And 
there,  Eric,  is  where  my  father  was  buried  thirty-two 
years  ago." 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Is  that  all  he  said?  " 

"  No,  he  said  my  mother  was  true  to  my  father,  as 
true  as  steel." 

He  was  still  staring  at  the  opposite  wall,  his  face  set 
and  white. 

"  Nothing  about  Chetwynd?  "  demanded  Eric  bluntly. 

Payson  turned  in  surprise.     "  Chetwynd?  " 

"  Didn't  he  tell  you  that  Chetwynd  is  out  there,  too, 
in  an  iron-bound  chest?  " 

"  Good  heaven !  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 
cried  the  other,  in  genuine  amazement. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Eric  grimly.  "  What  else  did 
he  say  about  —  about  me  ?  " 

"  That  you  as  much  as  accused  him  of  being  my 
father,"  said  Payson,  with  wonderful  self-control. 

"  I  didn't  put  it  just  that  way.  I  as  much  as  ac 
cused  you  of  bein£  his  son.  There  is  a  difference." 

"  I  ought  to  kill  you." 

"  Of  course,  he  denied  you,"  said  Eric. 

"  Denied  me  ?  Oh,  I  see.  You  mean  he  disowned 
me,"  said  Payson  grimly. 

"  I  wonder  at  your  complacency,"  said  the  other,  sur 
veying  him  in  no  little  admiration. 

"  It  is  not  the  time  for  anger,"  was  the  calm  retort. 
*'  There  is  too  much  at  stake.  I  have  had  many  lessons 
in  self-restraint.  Wall  Street  is  a  great  teacher  and  a 
great  leveller  of  personal  vanities.  I've  wanted  to  kill 
a  good  many  men  since  I  went  there,  Midthorne.  May 
I  ask  what  grounds  you  have  for  assuming  that  lie  is 
my  father?  " 

"  The  resemblance,"  said  Eric  bluntly. 

Payson  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  Involun 
tarily  his  gaze  sought  the  mirror  that  hung  on  the  op 
posite  wall.  The  room  was  half -dark. 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          315 

"  Good  God ! "  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  suddenly  con 
tracting  and  expanding.  He  passed  a  hand  over  his 
own  face,  as  if  to  see  whether  the  movement  would  be 
reflected  in  the  looking-glass. 

"  You  see  ?  "  said  Eric  gently,  a  great  pity  in  his 
heart. 

"  It's  —  it's  incredible !  He  spoke  of  the  resemblance, 
but  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  marked.  Why, —  why,  I 
can  see  his  eyes,  his  nose,  his  — " 

"  See  here,  Jack,"  broke  in  Midthorne  impulsively, 
"  I'm  sorry  for  all  this.  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I 
am.  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  hope  it  can  all  be 
cleared  up  satisfactorily.  I  hope  it  is  nothing  more 
than  a  curious  freak  of  Nature." 

Payson  turned  on  him  furiously.  "  My  mother  is  an 
honest  woman!  She  couldn't  have  done  the  horrible 
thing  you  are  accusing  her  of.  Only  prostitutes  de 
scend  to  — "  He  stopped  suddenly. 

Eric  had  clapped  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  a  deep  groaa 
breaking  through  his  bloodless  lips. 

The  other  understood.  "  I'm  sorry,  Eric,"  he  mut 
tered,  forgetting  his  own  emotions  in  contemplation  of 
his  companion's  sudden  pain.  "  I  forgot  — " 

Eric  cut  him  off,  his  pride  aflame.  "  I  don't  want 
your  pity,  or  your  explanations,  or  — " 

Payson  considerately  left  his  side  and  walked  to  the 
window,  peering  out  into  the  night,  giving  Midthprne 
time  to  recover  himself. 

After  a  few  minutes  Eric  spoke. 

"  How  does  lie  account  for  the  resemblance? "  he 
asked  quietly. 

Payson  returned  to  his  place  on  the  hearth-stone.  "  I 
am  willing  to  discuss  these  things  with  you,  Midthorne, 
because  you  are  Mary's  brother,  and  because  you  have 


316  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  perfect  right  to  know  who  and  what  I  am.  I'd  do 
just  as  you  are  doing  if  I  had  a  sister  and  it  was  you 
who  wanted  to  marry  her.  I'd  ask  questions  of  you, 
just  as — " 

"  And  I'd  tell  you  to  go  to  the  devil!  " 

"  But,"  went  on  the  other  calmly,  "  if  she  loved  you 
and  you  loved  her,  and  I  knew  you  to  be  an  honourable, 
well-meaning  chap, —  as  you  are,  Eric, —  I'd  give  her 
over  to  you  in  a  minute." 

"  I  daresay,"  remarked  Eric  bluntly. 

Payson  chose  again  to  ignore  an  offensive  remark. 
"  But  I  would  ask  questions,  as  I  said  before,"  he  went 
on.  "  They  would  relate  to  you  and  not  to  the  people 
who  brought  you  into  the  world.  You  ask  me  how 
Adam  accounts  for  the  resemblance.  Well,  he  doesn't 
attempt  to  do  so.  He  knew  my  father  well.  They 
were  boys  and  men  together.  All  he  will  say  is  that  I 
am  like  my  father,  and  that  my  father  was  Henry  Pay- 
son,  who  lies  out  there  in  the  Atlantic.  That  is  all  I 
can  get  out  of  him.  I'll  confess  there's  an  air  of  mys 
tery  about  it,  greater  than  ever,  now  that  I've  looked 
squarely  into  your  looking-glass.  My  own  seems  a  lit 
tle  less  brutal.  But  he  swears  on  his  soul,  as  he  loves 
me, —  and  I  know  he  does, —  that  I  have  nothing  to  fear. 
Curiously,  however,  he  forbids  me  to  question  my 
mother." 

"Aha!"  ejaculated  his  listener. 

*'  He  is  right,"  protested  Payson.  "  How  can  I  go 
to  her  with  —  well,  with  questions  ?  " 

His  voice  shook  with  the  sudden  rush  of  an  emotion 
that  came  over  him  so  swiftly  that  he  could  not  suppress 
it.  He  turned  his  back  quickly  and  clenched  his  hands 
in  the  violent  effort  to  regain  control  of  himself. 

"  You  can't  go  to  her,"  cried  Eric,  casting  off  all  re- 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          317 

serve.  "  Not  for  all  the  world.  Come,  come,  Jack, 
buck  up!  I  am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  con 
demn  you  or  any  other  man.  If  you  can  bring  yourself 
to  accept  an  apology  from  me,  I  offer  it  to  you  here  and 
now,  in  my  own  house.  What  is  more,  I  withdraw  my 
opposition  so  far  as  you  and  Mary  are  concerned." 

Payson  had  whirled  and  was  staring  at  him  with  in 
credulous  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  fool  enough  to  ask  you  to  overlook  the  in 
sults  I  have  offered,"  went  on  Midthorne  rapidly.  "  You 
will  consider  them  worse  than  insults  when  you  learn  the 
truth  about  the  man  who  — " 

With  a  glad  cry,  Jack  Payson  stretched  out  his  hands 
and  grasped  Eric's  shoulders. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  aglow.  "  You're 
hipped  about  something.  Don't  you  suppose  I  can  see 
there's  something  wrong?  You're  not  yourself.  That's 
why  I  can  and  do  overlook  the  so-called  insults.  I  don't 
hold  anything  against  you,  Eric.  We  can't  help  being 
friends.  You  don't  know  how  happy  I  am  to  hear  you 
say  that  you  won't  stand  in  the  way  of  our  marriage. 
It  would  have  been  unpleasant  to  defy  you,  but  that  — " 

"  Just  a  moment,  Payson,"  interrupted  Eric.  "  I 
must  tell  you  that  Mary  has  decided  that  she  can't  marry 
you.  We've  talked  it  over." 

"What!"  gasped  the  other,  dismayed.  His  jaw 
dropped.  "  Impossible !  I  don't  believe  it.  She  loves 
me.  Nothing  could  change  — " 

Eric  held  up  his  hand,  smiling  rather  wanly  as  he  met 
the  distressed  look  in  the  eyes  of  Mary's  lover. 

"  But  I'll  see  to  it  that  she  reconsiders.  She  does 
love  you.  She's  doing  all  this  for  my  sake,  and  because 
I  have  been  so  selfish  as  to  make  it  quite  impossible  for 
her  to  do  anything  else  but  give  you  up.  Take  off  your 


318  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

coat,  Jack.  I'd  like  to  have  you  stay  for  dinner  with 
us.  But  before  you  accept  the  invitation,  I  have  some 
thing  I  want  to  say  to  you.  I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  the  world  to-morrow, 
but  you  shall  have  it  first  of  all." 

Back  in  the  little  dining-room  the  single  maid-of -all- 
work  was  laying  the  table.  With  the  opening  and  clos 
ing  of  the  kitchen-door  there  came  subtly  into  the 
front  part  of  the  house  the  fragrant  aroma  of  boiling 
coffee. 

"A  confession?"  demanded  Payson,  all  at  sea  over 
the  riotous  turn  his  emotions  had  taken.  "  What  can 
you  have  to  confess?  " 

The  door  of  the  hall  opened  suddenly.  Mary  stood 
before  them,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  dark, 
questioning  eyes.  She  had  heard  the  last  few  words  of 
Eric's  speech  from  behind  the  partly  opened  door,  as 
she  paused  there  for  a  final  touch  to  her  hair.  A  dainty, 
exquisite  housegown  of  pink  enveloped  her  slender  fig 
ure. 

"  He  has  no  confession  to  make,"  she  protested 
shrilly.  "  Go  away,  Jack,  please  go  away.  I  must 
talk  with  him  alone." 

Both  men  started  forward,  actuated  by  totally  differ 
ent  impulses. 

"  I'll  go,  Mary,  if  you  ask  it  of  — "  began  one,  with 
an  eloquent  tenderness  in  his  voice.  He  felt  rather  than 
understood  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

"  Wait !  "  remonstrated  the  other.  "  It's  only  fair 
to  Jack,  Mary.  I've  asked  him  to  stay.  But  it  must 
be  settled  beforehand,  whether  he  is  with  me  or  against 
me.  Please  go  back  to  your  room,  dear,  until  I've  — ' ' 

"  No,"  she  said  firmly,  advancing  into  the  room. 
"  Jack,  dear,  if  you  love  me,  go!  " 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          319 

Payson  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  in  plain  dis 
tress. 

"  If  he  really  loves  you,  he'll  stay  and  hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  That  will  be  the  test,"  said  Eric. 

"Will  you  go,  Jack?"  she  pleaded,  coming  up  to 
him  and  putting  her  hands  on  his  arms. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said. 

Eric,  in  dumb  wonder,  watched  him  slip  into  the  storm 
coat  he  had  discarded  the  moment  before.  He  offered 
no  further  resistance  to  his  departure,  but  seemed  liter 
ally  to  shrink  into  the  background,  although,  in  plain 
truth,  he  did  not  move  an  inch  from  the  spot  on  which 
he  stood. 

Mary  walked  to  the  door  with  her  lover.  There  he 
turned  and  put  his  strong  hands  on  her  shoulders.  He 
made  no  vulgar  display  of  his  love ;  and  it  was  a  great, 
masterful  love.  His  eyes  alone  caressed  her. 

"  I'll  come  to-morrow,  Mary.  Whatever  it  is  that 
distresses  you, —  and  Eric,  too, —  thresh  it  all  out  to 
night.  It's  better  that  you  should.  Then,  dear  heart, 
when  I  come  to-morrow  I  shall  be  able  to  help  you.  Ask 
anything  of  me.  I  am  your  slave.  Good  night.  Good 
night,  Eric." 

He  passed  out  into  the  night,  gently  closing  the  door 
behind  him.  For  a  moment  she  stood  where  he  left  her, 
stared  dumbly  at  the  closed  door.  The  sound  of  his 
footsteps  crossing  the  porch  came  to  her,  then  the  brisk 
tread  on  the  gravel  walk. 

She  put  her  arms  against  the  door  and  laid  her  head 
upon  them,  burying  her  face.  For  a  long  time  she  held 
this  rather  tragic  position.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
room.  Eric  was  watching  her  inertly.  The  maid-of- 
all-work  dropped  a  knife  on  the  dining-room  floor. 
They  did  not  hear  it  strike. 


320  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

At  last  she  raised  her  face,  looking  straight  above 
her,  as  if  to  heaven.  After  a  moment,  she  turned  to  her 
brother. 

"  You  must  change  your  clothes,  Erne.  Dinner  will 
be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  said  wearily. 

"  You've  just  got  to  be  happy,"  he  cried  from  the 
very  depths  of  his  tortured  soul.  "  My  poor,  brave  lit 
tle  Mary." 

She  smiled  wanly.     "  Dear  old  Errie !  " 

Hours  afterward,  they  sat  before  the  cheery  fire-place, 
silent,  reflective,  depressed.  It  had  been  a  sorry  meal, 
that  dinner  of  theirs.  The  garrulous  New  England 
servant,  old  for  her  years, —  which  were  surprisingly 
few  as  things  go  in  old  New  England, —  gave  up  all 
efforts  to  draw  the  master  and  mistress  into  conversa 
tion.  Never  before,  in  all  her  time  as  "  help,"  had  she 
failed  so  utterly  to  inspire  communicativeness.  It  cer 
tainly  was  upsetting.  Her  name  was  Lizzie, —  a  New 
England  Lizzie,  at  that.  An  Elizabeth  by  any  other 
name  would  have  smelled  a  rat. 

No  word  had  passed  between  brother  and  sister  for 
the  matter  of  an  hour  or  more.  Her  hand  lay  clasped 
in  his  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  he  occupied.  Their 
thoughts  were  their  own.  She  had  kissed  him  when  he 
announced  his  decision  to  put  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
John  Payson's  courtship. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  rapping  at  the  door,  a  gentle, 
measured  tapping  that  rose  distinct  above  the  boisterous 
bedlam  of  the  winds. 

A  sort  of  terror  took  hold  of  them.  The  hand  clasp 
tightened,  their  eyes  grew  wide  with  wonder  and  alarm. 
They  waited,  staring  into  each  other's  eyes,  motionless 
in  the  chairs,  their  hearts  thumping  loudly:  waited  for 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING 

the  ghostly  sound  to  be  repeated.  Eric's  ears,  strangely 
enough,  were  strained  to  catch  the  sound  of  a  well-re 
membered  laugh. 

Again  the  tapping,  still  gentle  but  a  little  more  im 
perative.  They  turned  their  faces  toward  the  door. 
Their  eyes  were  glued  to  the  prim  white  knob.  It 
turned,  and  the  door  was  slowly  pushed  ajar. 

A  tall  figure  stood  on  the  threshold,  outlined  against 
the  blackness  beyond.  A  gaunt,  thin  figure  that  waited 
there  for  a  word  of  welcome  from  within. 

The  picture  held  for  a  minute.  Then  Eric  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  a  cry,  more  of  relief  than  surprise. 

"Uncle  Horace!" 

Involuntarily  Mary  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  man 
telpiece.  The  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind  was  re 
vealed  in  that  significant  act.  What  was  Horace  Blag- 
den  doing  abroad  at  this  time  of  night?  At  half -past 
nine,  and  such  a  night  as  this!  She  started  forward 
impulsively. 

"  What  has  happened,  Uncle  Horace  ?  "  she  cried. 
These  were  the  first  words  she  had  spoken  to  him  in  many 
weeks. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  asked  Horace,  rather  humbly  — 
for  him.  He  looked  thinner,  more  ascetic  than  ever  be 
fore,  in  the  long  black  raincoat  and  the  white  kerchief 
that  protected  his  throat  from  the  shrill  winds.  His 
tall  hat  seemed  to  set  lower  on  his  head;  his  thin  shoul 
ders  were  higher;  his  eyes  appeared  to  have  shrunken 
farther  back  into  their  sockets.  A  dripping  umbrella 
hung  suspended  from  his  gloved  hand. 

He  seemed  to  have  aged  vastly  in  the  few  hours  that 
had  passed  since  Eric's  conversation  with  him  in  the 
public  square. 

The  young  man   sprang  forward  and  grasped  his 


822  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

uncle's  hand,  suddenly  aroused  to  a  sense  of  duty  — 
and  compassion.  Mr.  Blagden  stepped  inside,  but,  re 
sponding  to  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  caught  himself  up 
in  time,  and  turned  to  desposit  his  umbrella  in  the  niche 
outside  the  door,  which  he  closed  gently  an  instant  later. 

"  Is  there  anything  wrong  with  Aunt  Rena  ?  "  de 
manded  Eric.  "  What  brings  you  out  on  a  night  like 
this?" 

"  I  shan't  remove  my  coat,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Blagden, 
as  she  took  his  hat  and  stood  waiting  for  him  to  unfasten 
the  cape  of  his  coat.  "It  is  a  dreadful  night.  I 
thought  I  should  be  blown  away  crossing  the  common. 
How  warm  and  cosey  you  have  made  it  here.  '  Pon  my 
word,  I  had  no  idea  Mrs.  Verner's  place  was  so  attrac 
tive." 

"  Sit  down,  Uncle,"  said  Eric,  pulling  a  chair  up  to 
the  grate.  "I  —  we  are  glad  to  see  you  here,"  he 
floundered,  considerably  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Horace.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be 
better  if  I  removed  my  coat.  An  umbrella  is  of  scant 
service  on  a  night  like  this,  what  with  the  wind  blowing 
and  the  rain  coming  from  all  sides." 

Eric  relieved  him  of  the  coat,  while  Mary  undid  the 
muffler.  To  their  amazement,  he  wore,  instead  of  the 
customary  frock-coat,  the  familiar  old  dressing  gown 
they  had  known  since  childhood.  With  one  accord, 
they  looked  at  his  feet.  They  were  encased  in  the 
ancient  carpet  slippers  that  Aunt  Rena  had  made  for 
him  a  score  of  years  before,  once  a  toasted  brown,  now 
a  water-soaked  black. 

"  For  heaven's  sake ! "  cried  Mary  aghast. 

Noting  their  concentrated  gaze,  he  looked  down.  For 
a  moment  he  was  silent.  Then  he  sat  down  rather  ab 
ruptly  in  the  big  chair. 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING         323 

"  Well,  I  —  I  declare !  "  he  murmured,  blinking  his 
eyes.  "  I  —  I  hadn't  noticed  that  I  — " 

They  did  not  wait  for  him  to  finish  the  plaintive  com 
ment  on  his  own  unhappy  plight.  Mary  gave  com 
mands,  and  both  set  about  to  provide  warm  stockings 
and  slippers  for  him.  He  submitted  to  the  changes 
without  a  protest,  and  even  smiled  when  she  produced  a 
huge  pair  of  gum-boots  from  the  hall-closet. 

"  You  will  catch  your  death-cold,"  she  said.  "  How 
could  you  think  of  coming  out  in  those  slippers,  Uncle 
Horace?  They—-" 

His  smile  deepened.  "  That's  just  it,  my  dear4"  he 
said.  "  I  didn't  think  of  coming  out  in  them.  Dear 
me,  I  —  I  —  But,  of  course,  I  was  in  a  great  hurry. 
I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  ventured  beyond  the  porch 
in  these  slippers  before.  You  are  very  good,  both  of 
you.  Very  good." 

They  stood  above  him,  looking  down  with  puzzled, 
distressed  eyes,  both  suddenly  mute  in  the  presence  of 
what  now  shaped  itself  into  a  tragedy. 

Mr.  Blagden  held  out  his  hands  to  the  fire,  shivering 
as  with  a  chill.  Then  he  allowed  his  gaze  to  sweep  the 
warm,  lamp-lit  room. 

"  You  are  very  comfortable  here,  I  am  sure,"  he 
said  slowly,  as  if  weighing  something  in  his  mind. 
"  Very  comfortable  and  happy  in  your  own  little 
home." 

"  Yes,"  said  they,  without  thinking. 

His  shoulders  seemed  to  settle  deeper  in  the  chair,  his 
chin  sank  ever  so  slightly. 

"I  —  I  fear,  then,  that  my  mission  to-night  is  —  er 
—  ahem !  —  a  rather  hopeless  one.  If  you  will  help 
me  on  with  those  boots,  Eric,  I  will  go  back  to  your 
aunt  — " 


324  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  In  heaven's  name,  Uncle  Horace,  what  has  hap 
pened?  "  cried  Eric.  "  What  is  it?  " 

Mr.  Blagden  looked  from  one  to  the  other  before  re 
sponding.  There  was  something  abjectly  pathetic  in 
his  face.  He  gulped,  and  his  firm  square  chin  trembled. 

"  Well, —  you  see, — "  he  began,  with  an  effort,  " —  I 
came  over  to-night  to  ask  you  both  to  come  back  to  — 
to  — "  He  got  no  farther.  His  voice  choked  and  tears 
started  up  in  his  eyes, —  eyes  that  had  not  felt  the  smart 
of  tears  since  boyhood's  earliest  pains. 
!  •  The  Midthornes,  in  that  moment's  utter  crumbling  on 
,the  part  of  the  great  man  of  Corinth,  felt  the  passing 
of  a  life-long  spirit  of  antagonism  and  restraint.  It 
melted  and  oozed  away,  leaving  their  hearts  empty,  and 
aching,  and  cleansed  of  all  the  things  that  rankled. 

They  were  young  and  strong,  and  their  souls  were 
sweet  despite  the  bitter  seeds  that  this  gaunt  old  man 
had  planted  in  his  years  of  plenty.  Now  he  was  come  to 
his  days  of  famine.  He  had  sown,  and  he  had  reaped, 
and  his  bins  were  empty.  He  was  poor,  he  had  come  to 
beg! 

They  stood  beside  him.  Their  hands  fell  upon  his 
drooping  shoulders,  and  rested  there  while  the  strong 
current  of  human  sympathy  gushed  from  their  hearts 
into  the  famished  soul  of  this  wondering  old  man. 

He  looked  up,  strangely  dazed;  he  could  not  under 
stand  the  sensation  that  was  creeping  over  him.  He 
had  never  felt  anything  just  like  it  before  in  all  his  life. 
No  one  had  ever  presumed  to  such  gentle  familiarity, 
such  frank  fearlessness.  It  was  a  sensation. 

"  Why,  Mary  — "  he  began,  a  great  question  leaping 
into  his  wet  eyes.  He  tried  himself  first,  before  going 
on,  just  to  see  if  he  could  smile  as  she  was  smiling. 


A  BEGGAR  COMES  KNOCKING          325 

Then,  feeling  his  lips  relax,  he  could  not  trust  himself 
to  further  speech  for  very  fear  of  saying  something 
that  might  destroy  the  sweetness  of  his  discovery. 

And  so  they  waited  until  the  warmth  was  in  them  all, 
until  the  heart-beats  were  strong  and  free. 

At  last  Mr.  Blagden  spoke.  His  voice  was  low  and 
full  of  gentleness. 

"  Of  course,  I  can't  think  of  asking  you  to  leave  a 
cheery,  delightful  nest  like  this  for  that  cold,  barren 
place  I  call  home,"  he  said  wistfully.  "  It's  not  to  be 
thought  of.  We  —  your  aunt  and  I  —  were  so  selfish 
as  to  hope  you  might  come  back  if  I  were  eloquent 
enough  to  —  But,  of  course,  we  couldn't  have  known 
how  nicely  you  are  situated  here.  This  little  room  is 
more  eloquent  than  I  could  ever  hope  to  be.  It  is  an 
argument  that  I  cannot  meet."  His  bony  fingers  sud 
denly  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair.  "  But,  God  help 
me!  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  bleak  and  cold  and 
dead  our  rooms  are, — •  how  great  the  contrast.  Ah,  my 
children,  you  have  all  the  light.  We  have  none.  Your 
Aunt  Rena  is — "  Again  he  stopped  short,  visibly 
moved. 

They  instinctively  felt  that  their  aunt  was  in  even 
greater  anguish  than  the  ambassador  who  found  it  so 
difficult  to  state  his  mission  in  plain  terms. 

"  Is  Aunt  Rena  ill?  "  asked  Eric,  with  the  desire  to 
make  it  easy  for  him  to  go  on. 

"  If  she  is  ill, —  if  she  wants  us,  Uncle  Horace,  we 
will  go  to  her  at  once,"  added  Mary,  after  a  quick  look 
into  her  brother's  eyes. 

Horace's  face  brightened.  "You  will?"  he  cried 
eagerly.  "  It  is  very  good  of  you, —  very.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  much  good  it  will  do  her  to  —  to  see  you 


326  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

again.  Of  course, — "  he  hesitated  once  more  — "  of 
course,  her  heart  is  set  on  having  you  back  there  to  — 
to  stay." 

Another  protracted  period  of  silence.  Horace  ap 
peared  to  be  reading  their  thoughts,  for  it  was  he  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"  She  is  ill,"  he  broke  out  despairingly.  "  Not  phys 
ically  ill,  but  mentally.  Her  soul  is  sick.  She  —  she 
seems  worse  to-night  than  ever  before.  A  dream, —  a 
horrid  dream  this  afternoon  has  upset  her  terribly.  She 
refuses  to  go  to  bed  to-night,  fearing  a  repetition.  I 
am  unnerved.  I  couldn't  endure  it  any  longer.  Your 
hearts  would  be  touched  if  you  could  see  her  to-night. 
All  evening  long  she  has  been  wondering  if  you  will 
ever  come  back.  She  knows  that  Chetwynd  is  dead. 
You  see,  she  — " 

Eric  started.     "She  knows?     Then,—" 

"  It  came  to  her  in  the  dream.  And  it  was  so  very 
real,  as  she  describes  it."  Horace  arose  stiffly.  "  I  do 
not  feel  it  is  right  for  me  to  ask  you  to  come  with  me 
now,  but  —  but — " 

"  We'll  go,  Uncle  Horace,"  said  Mary  resolutely. 
She  knew  that  the  decision  rested  with  her. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  three  of  them  went  forth  into 
the  night,  huddled  close  together  to  fight  the  wind,  with 
Mary  in  the  centre.  The  clock  in  the  Court-house 
struck  the  hour  of  ten. 

"  I  will  tell  you  of  the  dream  when  we  reach  the 
house,"  Mr.  Blagden  had  said  as  they  left  the  porch  of 
the  Verner  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AFTEE    THE    SERMON 

THERE  was  a  vague,  almost  shadowy  light  in  the  par 
lour  windows.  A  reflected  glow  from  the  5im  old 
porch-lamp  that  hung  above  the  front  steps  of  the 
"  Giant's  Castle "  threw  the  curtained  windows  into 
dull  relief. 

As  the  hurrying  trio  came  up  the  gravel  walk,  their 
gaze  was  centered  on  one  of  these  windows,  held  by  a 
common  anxiety.  Not  one,  but  all  of  them  knew  that  a 
long-used  chair  stood  close  beside  this  particular  win 
dow. 

They  were  nearing  the  steps  when  one  of  the  rigid 
curtains  moved  ever  so  slightly,  and  yet  distinctly.  It 
parted  from  its  mate  an  inch  or  two  and  then  became 
motionless  once  more.  The  effect  was  weird,  uncanny, 
almost  ghostly.  Someone  sat  behind  this  curtain  watch 
ing  their  approach;  an  unseen  hand  held  the  curtains 
apart ;  a  pair  of  wistful  eyes  peered  out  of  the  loneliness 
that  lay  in  the  room  behind. 

Horace  Blagden  sighed  audibly. 

Once  inside  the  door,  he  checked  his  companions  with 
a  whispered  word  and  the  raising  of  a  finger  to  his  lips. 
They  stood  there  for  a  moment,  listening. 

"  Go  into  the  library,"  said  he,  in  a  lowered  voice. 
"  I  think  your  aunt  is  in  the  parlour." 

He  crossed  the  hall  and  softly  opened  the  door,  paus 
ing  an  instant  before  entering.  As  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him,  Eric  and  Mary  turned  toward  the  library, 

where  a  light  gleamed  through  the  transom. 

327 


328  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  You  will  not  tell  them  to-night?  "  whispered  Mary, 
clutching  his  arm. 

"  No,"  he  replied  without  hesitation,  "  I  haven't  the 
heart.  Why,  he  seems  happy  —  actually  happy." 

They  waited  in  the  old,  familiar  room,  curiously  awed 
by  its  Blagdenesque  primness  after  their  own  rather  un 
conventional  disorder.  Mary  removed  her  hat  and  laid 
it  on  the  table  with  her  gossamer  and  gloves.  It  was 
an  inspired  act  on  her  part,  as  subsequent  events  proved. 

Mr.  Blagden  came  in  a  few  minutes  later,  holding 
open  the  door  that  his  wife  might  pass  before  him. 
There  was  a  contented  smile  on  his  thin  lips. 

"  There,  my  dear,"  he  said  gently,  waving  his  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  two  Midthornes ;  "  I  am  sure  you 
can't  call  those  fine  flesh  and  blood  creatures  dream 
fancies.  They  are  very  real,  and  won't  disappear  be 
fore  morning,  as  you  say."  To  Eric  and  Mary: 
"  Your  aunt  is  positive  she  is  only  dreaming  you  are 
here." 

A  wavering,  uncertain  smile  appeared  on  Mrs.  Blag- 
den's  face.  She  advanced,  holding  out  her  hands,  al 
most  shyly. 

The  young  people  sprang  forward,  each  grasping  a 

slim  white  hand.     Mary  impulsively  threw  an  arm  about 

her  aunt's  shoulders  and  drew  the  thin,  shrinking  figure 

>  close  to  her  strong,  eager  body.     Then  she  kissed  the 

,  tremulous  lips  of  the  woman  who  had  done  nothing  in 

her  life  but  hurt  her. 

"  She's  come  to  stay,  Aunt  Rena,"  said  Eric. 

Mrs.  Blagden  withdrew  her  hand  from  Eric's  and 
slowly,  gently  passed  it  over  the  cheek  of  the  girl.  Her 
eyes  were  soft  and  imploring. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  Mary,"  she  murmured,  "  are  you 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  329 

quite  sure  that  you  meant  to  kiss  roe  like  that?  Do  you 
really  mean  to  — " 

Mary  kissed  her  again.  "  I  do  mean  it,  Aunt  Rena, 
I  do  mean  it." 

"  I  have  been  very  unkind,  very  unjust  to  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Blagden,  still  searching  the  girl's  face  with  won 
dering  eyes. 

"  I  can  forget,  Aunt  Rena,"  said  Mary,  quite  simply. 
She  did  not  commit  the  error  of  trying  to  appear 
definitely  reconciled. 

"I  am  sorry  for  all  that  I  may  have  done,  my  dear," 
said  her  aunt  humbly.  "  I  can  say  no  more.  But, — 
but  I  do  love  you !  I  do  want  you !  " 

It  was  a  wail  from  the  very  bottom  of  a  hungry,  un 
happy  soul  —  a  soul  that  still  belonged  to  the  blithe, 
untrammelled  Rena  Van  Dykeman  of  another  day,  and 
that  now  said  good-bye  forever  to  its  Corinth  environ 
ment. 

"  And  you,  too,  Eric,"  she  went  on,  more  calmly. 
She  eyed  him  fondly,  and  patted  his  arm.  "  You  are 
my  son  now.  I  want  a  son.  I  need  a  son.  Your 
uncle  needs  you." 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  spoke  up  Mr.  Blagden,  unsteadily. 
*'  Now,  my  dear,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  retire  ? 
You  are  very  tired.  It  has  been  a  hard  day  for  you." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtful  of  you,  Mary,  to  take  off 
your  hat  before  I  came  in,"  said  Mrs.  Blagden  irrele 
vantly,  even  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm. 
"  It  made  it  so  easy  for  me.  You  will  forgive  me  if 
I  say  good  night  now.  Good  night,  Eric.  You  will 
find  your  rooms  just  as  you  left  them.  Martha  has  put 
out  your  things, —  some  that  you  forgot  to  take  away 
with  you.  I've  kept  them  in  my  bureau  since  —  Yes, 


330  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

yes,  Horace,  I  am  coming.  Good  night,  Mary.  I  am 
so  glad  you  have  come  back  to  us.  Martha  will  call  you 
as  usual  in  the  morning." 

In  the  doorway,  Horace  turned  to  speak  to  the  deeply 
moved  young  man  and  woman. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  wait  here  for  a  little 
,  while?  I  am  coming  down  to  close  up  the  house." 
There  was  something  significant  in  the  way  he  put  it. 
They  were  wet  and  uncomfortable,  yet  they  would  not 
have  thought  of  going  upstairs  before  their  uncle  laid 
bare  the  conditions  which  had  sent  him  out  into  the  night 
so  bravely. 

The  change  in  Horace's  nature  was  most  strikingly 
illustrated  by  the  next  remark  that  fell  from  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  I  almost  forgot  that  you  are  wet  and 
cold.  Come  upstairs  to  your  rooms.  Martha  will  get 
out  dry  stockings  and  slippers  for  you.  And  she  shall 
make  mustard  baths  for  your  feet  before  you  go  to  bed. 
And  hot  lemonades." 

When  the  Midthornes  came  downstairs  later  on,  after 
changing  a  part  of  their  apparel,  they  were  amazed  to 
find  Horace  Blagden  on  his  knees  before  the  fireplace, 
clumsily  starting  a  fire  in  the  grate.  His  lack  of  ex 
perience  was  evident,  his  embarrassment  undisguised. 
Eric  went  to  his  assistance. 

Presently  they  were  seated  before  the  snapping 
coals. 

"  Your  aunt's  dream,"  said  Mr.  Blagden,  "  was  a 
most  distressing  one.  It  was  so  real  that  she  can't  get  it 
out  of  her  mind  that  we  are  to  hear  bad  news  of  Chet- 
wynd.  You  see,  I  mention  his  name  once  more.  I  do 
so  because  I  am  confident  that  he  is  not  in  the  land  of 
the  living,  Adam  Carr  to  the  contrary.  Not  a  day 
passes  that  I  do  not  expect  to  hear  through  that  excel- 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  331 

lent  blood-hound  that  my  son  has  come  to  his  death  in 
some  far-off  land  and  that  the  chase  has  ended." 

"  But,  Aunt  Rena's  dream,  please,"  said  Mary,  with 
a  quick  glance  at  Eric's  twitching  face. 

Horace  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  "  She 
was  taking  her  nap  this  afternoon,  as  usual.  A  vision 
came  to  her.  It  was  more  than  a  dream.  In  this  vision 
there  appeared  a  series  of  vast  cliffs  and  precipices, 
reaching  so  high  in  the  sky  that  all  the  world  seemed  to 
lie  below  them.  Far  below,  at  the  base  of  these  dreadful 
cliffs,  was  the  sea, —  miles  and  miles  below,  she  declares. 
The  breakers  came  rushing  up  in  the  shape  of  gigantic 
hands  and  arms,  all  of  them  reaching  upward  in  the  ef 
fort  to  clamber  to  the  top  of  the  sheer  walls  of  stone 
that  touched  the  sky. 

"  She  came  out  upon  the  loftiest  of  all  these  cliffs  and 
sat  down  to  rest,  with  her  tired  feet  hanging  over  the 
ledge.  The  great  arms  and  writhing  fingers  redoubled 
their  efforts.  They  climbed  higher  and  higher,  but  they 
could  not  reach  to  her  feet.  A  huge,  black-lipped 
mouth  opened  and  closed,  showing  its  teeth,  in  the  sea 
below, —  a  vast  maw  that  craved  her  as  with  an  appe 
tite  that  knew  no  pity.  As  she  sat  there,  looking  wear 
ily  about,  almost  at  the  gates  of  heaven,  another  figure 
appeared  on  the  cliff  not  far  away.  It  was  Chetwynd. 
He  approached  to  the  very  edge,  and  stood  looking  out 
over  space,  his  hands  on  a  flimsy  railing  she  had  not 
noticed  before.  She  cried  out  to  him  and  would  have 
risen  to  go  to  him  but  for  that  strange  paralysis  that 
one  experiences  in  dreams." 

He  paused  to  clear  his  throat.  Eric,  drew  a  long, 
deep  breath  and  relaxed  his  grip  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair. 

"  Then  she  tried  to  call  out  to  him,  but  no  sound 


332  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

above  a  whisper  could  she  force  from  her  lips.  Anothef 
figure  came  creeping  up  from  behind,  the  figure  of  a 
man  whose  face  she  could  not  see.  This  man  stole  upon 
Chetwynd  and  struck  him  a  violent  blow,  sending  him 
through  the  rail  and  over  the  — " 

Eric  leaped  to  his  feet,  a  cry  of  horror  on  his  lips. 
Then,  to  the  utter  amazement  of  his  uncle,  he  rushed 
from  the  room. 

Mr.  Blagden  turned  to  Mary  in  great  distress. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  said;  "  dear  me!  What  have  I  said? 
I  —  Where  are  you  going,  Mary  ?  " 

"  To  Eric ! "  she  cried,  in  great  agitation.  A  mo 
ment  later,  Horace  Blagden  sat  alone  in  his  library, 
staring  at  the  door,  vastly  perplexed,  and  with  a  great 
apprehension  growing  up  in  his  heart. 

He  heard  the  rush  of  swift  footsteps  in  the  hall  up 
stairs,  the  slamming  of  a  door,  and  then  no  other  sound 
save  the  merry  crackle  of  the  coals. 

Two  days  went  slowly  by.  They  brought  forth  an 
early  apology  from  Eric  for  his  rude  behaviour  in  the 
library,  but  no  explanation.  He  had  decided  to  wait 
for  the  last  word  from  Adam  Carr.  Not  that  he  lacked 
the  courage  or  the  will  to  deliver  his  secret,  but  that 
newly  made  conditions  raised  obstacles  that  could  not 
be  surmounted.  First  of  all,  the  pathetic  devotion  of 
his  uncle  and  aunt.  They  called  him  their  son !  Then, 
the  innate  gentleness  of  his  own  nature,  which  shrank 
from  the  desire  to  rob  them  of  their  new  estate, —  a 
strange  wealth  of  contentment  and  resignation.  To 
tell  them  now  would  be  to  destroy  the  only  joy  left  in 
life  for  them.  Again,  the  curious  sense  of  loyalty  to 
Adam  Carr! 

He  lost  no  time  in  looking  up  John  Pay  son,  to  whom 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  333 

an  explanation  was  due,  and  a  plea  for  Mary's  sake. 
Payson  heard  him  through, —  a  nervous,  disconnected 
statement  it  was, —  and  considerately  assured  him  that 
he  not  only  understood  the  situation,  but  that  he  would 
not  have  had  Mary  do  otherwise  than  she  had  done. 

"  Tell  her,  Eric,"  he  said,  "  that  I  love  her  more  than 
ever.  I  can  wait  until  she  is  ready  to  send  for  me. 
Brace  up,  old  fellow.  I  understand." 

But,  though  he  said  it  fairly  enough,  he  did  not  un 
derstand.  He  was  sorely  puzzled. 

No  word  came  from  Adam  Carr. 

Sunday  was  at  hand.  The  Saturday  Courier  had  an 
nounced  the  programme  for  the  services  at  the  First 
Congregational  Church.  There  was  to  be  a  solo  in  the 
morning  by  the  popular  Miss  Smith,  with  flute  and  'cello 
obligate !  More  wonderful  still,  a  'cello  solo  during 
the  "  collection  "  by  the  famous  Professor  Parker  of 
Boston!  In  the  evening,  a  song  service,  with  a  short 
sermon  by  the  minister,  the  Rev.  Mr.  King. 

And  all  this  in  the  First  Congregational  Church  of 
Corinth!  Horace  Blagden's  church! 

At  half-past  ten,  Mr.  Blagden  put  on  his  tall  hat, 
took  up  his  gold-headed  cane,  and  announced  to  the  two 
Midthornes  that  it  was  time  to  be  off  to  church.  Mrs. 
Blagden  was  not  up  to  it,  so  they  were  leaving  her  be 
hind. 

"  The  bell  hasn't  rung  yet,  Uncle  Horace,"  observed 
Eric,  who  had  been  waiting  for  the  resounding  peals  of 
that  well-known  summoner  of  the  faithful. 

"  Mr.  King's  orders,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Horace  as 
calmly  as  if  the  silencing  of  that  venerable  and  never- 
failing  bell  was  the  most  trivial  thing  in  the  world.  He 
pondered  a  moment  and  then  added,  with  a  queer  little 
shake  of  his  head :  "  Mr.  King  is  really  a  human  sort  of 


33-i  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  Christian.  A  sensible  one,  I  might  say.  Come  along, 
please.  We  can't  afford  to  be  late  after  what  he  said 
at  the  board  meeting  last  week." 

He  seemed  nervous  and  quite  anxious  to  be  off. 

"  You  see,  my  dears,  there's  a  very  sick  child  across 
the  street  from  the  church.  Abscesses  in  the  ears,  I  un 
derstand.  They've  got  tan  bark  along  the  entire  block. 
Last  week  I  attended  to  having  the  heavy  teaming 
stopped  on  that  part  of  the  street.  The  child's  mother 
informed  Mr.  King  that  the  frightful  clanging  of  the 
church  bell  almost  set  the  little  girl  wild  with  pain. 
So," —  here  he  took  a  long  breath, — "  Mr.  King  prom 
ised  her  that  —  er,  ahem !  —  it  should  not  ring  until  the 
little  sufferer  was  quite  fully  recovered.  Most  unusual. 
Most  extraordinary.  The  bell  hasn't  missed  a  service, 
morning  or  night,  in  sixty  years." 

"Good  for  Mr.  King!"  cried  Mary.  "He  is  the 
right  kind  of  a  Christian.  I  don't  see  why  the  foolish 
old  thing  has  to  ring  anyway." 

Mr.  Blagden  looked  hurt.  "  Really,  Mary,  that  isn't 
just  the  proper — "  He  caught  himself  up  with  one 
of  his  rare  smiles,  albeit  was  rather  a  shamefaced  effort. 
"  Mr.  King  did  not  put  it  in  just  that  way,  my  dear, 
but  he  was  quite  convincing  and  —  er,  ahem !  —  very 
positive.  He  said  that  if  the  members  of  the  First  Con 
gregational  Church  did  not  know  the  hours  for  service,  it 
was  high  time  they  were  learning  them.  It  isn't  neces 
sary  to  ring  a  bell  in  order  to  get  people  to  the  theatre 
on  time,  said  he,  so  why  bring  them  to  church  in  that 
way.  Really,  he  was  quite  emphatic  about  it.  Some 
how,  we  agreed  with  him.  I  believe  it  is  his  intention 
to  make  note  of  the  tardy  ones  to-day,  for  —  er,  ahem ! 
—  missionary  purposes,  as  he  put  it  to  the  board." 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  335 

Mr.  Blagden  looked  at  his  watch,  and  accelerated  his 
speed  quite  noticeably.  Eric  and  Mary  could  scarcely 
credit  their  senses.  Truly,  a  wonderful  thing  had  hap 
pened  in  Corinth.  A  new  gospel  had  supplanted  the 
old.  A  rock-bound,  half-dead  Spirituality  had  been 
shaken  into  life  by  a  process  of  enlightenment  that  was 
,  positively  bewildering.  An  up-to-date  minister,  with  an 
up-to-date  gospel,  had  completely  upset  the  religious 
calculations  of  a  century  and  a  half,  and  Corinth  was 
surviving  the  shock! 

Eric  could  not  help  wondering  how  long  it  would  be 
before  one  of  the  great,  progressive  and  covetous  metro 
politan  congregations  would  extend  a  call  to  this  amaz 
ing  Mr.  King  —  and  get  him  at  a  vastly  increased 
salary,  with  perhaps  a  pension  for  his  wife  when  he  be 
came  too  old  to  preach,  or  it  got  tired  of  him  and  wanted 
a  change. 

The  new  Congregationalism  had  at  last  forced  its  way 
into  Corinth.  It  had  taken  many  years.  I  venture  the 
opinion  that  the  First  Congregational  Church  did  more 
toward  proving  the  blindness  of  faith  when  it  called 
Mr.  King  than  anything  that  has  been  done  in  the  name 
or  the  history  of  religion.  A  congregation  so  set 
tled  and  steadfast  in  its  ways  could  not  have  accom 
plished  a  transition  so  complete  as  this  except  by  acci 
dent.  Mr.  King  was  truly  an  accident,  quite  as  much 
of  an  accident  as  the  stroke  of  lightning  which  never 
strikes  twice  in  the  same  place.  If  anyone  had  told  the 
trustees  in  advance  that  he  was  going  to  tweak  tradi 
tion's  nose  until  it  slipped  entirely  out  of  joint,  those 
excellent  gentlemen,  Horace  Blagden  included,  would 
have  preserved  the  tenets  of  the  church  so  rigorously  that 
the  name  of  Mr.  Percival  King  would  never  have  been 


336  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

heard  in  Corinth.  But  they  took  him  on  faith,  and 
they  had  been  taking  him  on  faith  ever  since,  without 
a  murmur  of  dissent. 

He  was  the  modern  Congregationalist  (God  bless 
him!),  and  as  strong  as  Samson  when  it  came  to  shatter 
ing  pillars.  The  old  church  fell  down  about  their  heads, 
without  hurting  anyone,  and  a  new  one  went  up  in  its 
place  so  swiftly  that  before  the  congregation  knew  what 
it  was  about  it  was  reformed,  rejuvenated,  humanised. 
He  was  giving  it  something  to  think  about,  something 
to  enjoy,  something  to  grasp. 

Unlike  Mr.  Presbrey  and  his  sombre  predecessors,  he 
called  a  spade  a  spade,  and  with  that  spade  he  dug  a 
very  deep  grave  for  bigotry,  winsomely  engaging  a 
whole  church-full  of  unconscious  bigots  to  assist  him  in 
burying  the  dead. 

The  silencing  of  the  bell!  Violins,  flutes  and  'cellos, 
—  without  the  brass  and  cymbals, —  in  the  choir !  Joy 
ous,  inspiring  anthems!  Twenty  minute  sermons  and 
cheerful  texts!  Oratory  without  thirdlies,  and  fourth- 
lies,  and  ninthlies!  Golf  on  week  days  and  a  genuine 
interest  in  the  Sunday-school  nine!  Potted  plants  in 
the  vestibule  and  fresh  posies  on  the  reading  stand! 
Broiled  lobster  instead  of  fried  chicken, —  when  he 
could  get  it!  Man  alive! 

And  congregations  at  both  services  on  the  Sabbath 
that  tried  the  capacity  of  the  building!  And,  most 
wonderful  of  all:  if  the  regular  pew-holders  were  not 
in  their  seats  by  five  minutes  after  eleven,  the  busy 
ushers  were  instructed  to  conduct  the  standing  over 
flow  that  lined  the  walls  to  the  cushioned  pews  of  the 
tardy ! 

A  long  way  back  in  this  narrative  I  said  that  Mr. 
Presbrey  was  a  good  man  and  that  he  would  bear 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  837 

watching.  The  proof  is  at  hand.  He  has  become  a 
bookagent.  A  side-issue,  of  course.  His  preparatory 
school  for  boys  was  not  what  you  would  call  self-sus 
taining.  So,  if  you  didn't  have  boys  to  send  to  him, 
you  could  do  the  next  best  thing  by  subscribing  for 
that  enlightening  set  of  books  known  as  "  The  Great 
Masters  of  the  Pulpit,"  twelve  volumes,  calf  or  cloth, 
with  gilt  edges  and  copper-plate  portraits,  at  two-and- 
a-half  or  four,  just  as  your  fancy  for  covers  ran,  five 
dollars  down  and  the  balance  in  weekly  installments. 
Your  name  on  the  subscription  list  was  always  solicited 
because  its  presence  there  was  an  asset  not  to  be  despised 
in  the  effort  to  introduce  the  books  into  all  respectable 
and  intellectual  homes.  It  was  particularly  desired 
that  you  be  among  those  at  the  top  of  the  list.  If 
your  name  was  there,  everyone  else  in  town  was  sure 
to  know  that  the  books  were  well  worth  possessing. 
No  home  should  be  without  "  The  Great  Masters  of 
the  Pulpit."  You  felt  rather  sorry  for  Mr.  Presbrey, 
so  you  subscribed  —  for  the  two-and-a-half  set.  He 
was  so  successful  in  the  placing  of  these  books  in  Cor 
inth  and  nearby  villages  that,  after  a  month's  trial  at 
the  work,  he  felt  encouraged  to  add  Dickens  and  Thack 
eray  and  Shakespere  to  his  stock.  But  not  Balzac  or 
Gautier.  It  was  much  too  early  for  the  effort  to  in 
troduce  those  French  masters  into  the  homes  of  the 
Corinthians.  The  Rev.  Mr.  King  had  not  been  there 
long  enough. 

Mr.  Blagden  led  the  way  down  the  aisle  to  the  pew 
that  once  had  belonged  to  his  great-grandfather.  The 
name  in  the  corner  of  the  seat  had  never  been  changed. 
The  word  "  Blagden  "  was  there,  just  as  it  had  been 
ordered  by  the  far-sighted  and  thrifty  ancestor,  whose 
penuriousness  took  in  the  probability  that  some  future 


338  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Blagden  might  aspire  to  different  initials;  moreover* 
it  was  ridiculous  to  expect  that  the  first-born  male  in 
each  generation  would  have  to  be  named  So-and-So,  sim 
ply  because  of  loyalty  to  a  church-pew. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  or  the  desire  of  the  writer 
to  devote  a  chapter  to  the  description  of  this  spring 
morning  service  in  the  First  Congregational  Church  of 
Corinth.  We  will  merely  glance  over  the  congrega 
tion,  absorb  a  few  stray  words  from  the  lips  of  the  pas 
tor,  commend  the  music,  and  be  back  on  our  way  to  the 
house  on  the  hill,  vaguely  satisfied  with  the  new  Cor 
inthian  era. 

We  find  the  church  filled  to  overflowing.  Not  one 
of  the  old  pew-holders  is  absent.  Each  and  every  one 
got  there  on  time  without  being  called  by  the  bell.  In 
fact,  a  goodly  number  were  there  ahead  of  time.  There 
was  in  each  breast  the  ever-impending  dread  that  some 
brash  outsider  would  sneak  in  and  confiscate  his  seat. 
And  it's  a  very  awkward  matter,  getting  one  out  of 
your  pew  after  he's  once  got  into  it.  You  can't  do 
it  without  words,  and  the  other  fellow  is  quite  apt  to 
have  something  to  say  about  it  himself. 

Very  stiff  and  erect  sat  Mr.  Blagden,  looking  neither  i 
to  right  nor  left,  but  straight  at  the  fervid,  impas 
sioned,  convincing  face  of  the  young  minister  who  had 
wrought  so  many  changes.  No  man  dozed, —  never ! 
The  spell  was  upon  all  those  within  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  In  the  old  days  one  might  have  been  supported 
in  the  belief  that  Mr.  Presbrey's  hearers  regarded  the 
passive  mood  as  the  only  true  channel  through  which 
to  absorb  sanctification :  hence,  they  slept.  But  young 
Mr.  King,  soulful  and  forceful,  had  them  in  his  grip. 
They  just  cotddn't  sleep.  He  was  fighting  Satan  in 
a  practical,  twentieth  century  way;  not  allege rically. 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  839 

His  sermon  on  this  eventful  morning  had  to  do  with 
"  Hell."  He  spoke  of  the  modern,  up-to-date  hell, 
the  sort  that  we  see  every  day  of  our  lives  if  we  take 
the  trouble  to  look  about  us.  It  was  somewhat  of  a 
new  idea  to  the  people  of  Corinth.  They  had  come  to 
believe  that  hell  was  a  long  way  off.  Mr.  King  made 
it  uncomfortably  near  for  those  who  listened. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  surprising  things  that  filtered 
into  the  ears  of  the  Corinthians  and  gave  them  some 
thing  to  think  about  for  days. 

"  Christianity  is  a  science,  and  we've  got  to  treat 
it  as  such.  It  isn't  a  theory.  .  .  .  You  can't  con 
quer  sin  by  sneering  at  it.  ...  Everything  else 
in  the  world  is  going  ahead;  the  church  isn't. 
The  Salvation  Army  and  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  know  how 
to  fight.  They  know  where  to  hit  and  how  to  hit. 
.  .  .  You  can't  pat  the  devil  on  the  back  all  week 
and  call  him  '  old  chap,'  and  then  turn  around  and 
surprise  him  by  trying  to  thrash  him  on  the  Sabbath. 
...  We  have  one  day  of  rest  in  the  seven.  He 
never  takes  a  day  off.  ...  If  you  expect  to  de 
feat  the  Black  Prince,  you've  got  to  come  out  of  your 
shells  and  fight  in  the  open.  You'll  have  the  advantage 
of  him  there.  .  .  .  The  world  is  very  large  and 
very  clever.  Fossils  and  mossbacks  have  no  more 
license  for  thinking  they  can  fight  the  world  than  an 
octogenarian  has  for  thinking  he  can  fight  a  youth 
of  twenty-five.  That's  why,  my  friends,  the  church 
is  going  around  part  of  the  time  with  a  black  eye  and 
a  grudge.  And  it  is  always  whining  when  it  gets 
thrashed.  ...  It  only  fights  the  devil  on  Sunday, 
and  then  gives  him  a  week  to  recuperate.  And,  my 
friends,  his  Satanic  Majesty  doesn't  care  the  snap  of 
his  finger  for  all  the  Sundays  we  can  crowd  into  Eter- 


$40  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

nity.  It's  the  week  days  that  he's  interested  in.  ... 
Fight  the  devil  with  love,  not  bitterness  of  spirit.  He 
can't  find  a  defence  against  love.  If  you  try  to  fight 
him  with  scorn  as  the  weapon,  you'll  get  mightily  beaten. 
He  has  too  many  friends  who  resent  being  sneered  at, 
—  and  they're  influential,  too.  ...  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  respect  for  the  sincere  atheist  or  agnostic.  I 
like  a  man  who  is  sincere.  The  atheist  is  never  any 
thing  less  than  he  pretends  to  be.  You  can't  say  as 
much  for  the  great  majority  of  our  professed  Chris 
tians.  Give  me  a  fair-and-square,  upright  atheist 
every  day  in  preference  to  a  weak-kneed  professing 
Christian  who  doesn't  stand  for  anything  after  he's 
paid  his  pew  rent  and  added  a  half-dollar  or  so  of  a 
Sunday  to  pay  for  his  week's  salvation.  .  .  .  The 
atheist  is  a  man ;  the  wish-washy,  half-hearted,  sceptical 
Christian  isn't  good  enough  to  black  his  boots.  .  .  . 
You  can't  get  into  heaven  by  paying  fifty  cents  a 
week  on  the  installment  plan.  Why,  the  way  things 
go  in  these  days,  it  costs  a  great  deal  more  than  that 
to  get  into  the  other  place.  ...  A  man  who 
spends  a  thousand  dollars  a  week  having  a  '  devil  of 
a  time,'  my  friends,  can't  balance  his  account  with 
God  for  fifty  cents  or  a  dollar.  .  .  .  Frock  coats 
and  black  ties  don't  make  Christians  of  you.  Overalls 
and  junipers  will  do  quite  as  well.  No  matter  which 
you  wear,  you  will  have  to  lay  them  aside  when  you 
start  forth  to  face  your  Maker.  .  .  .  You  may 
come  to  this  church  in  your  every-day,  business  suits 
if  you  choose.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  it  to 
be  easier  to  preach  salvation  to  a  man  in  his  grey  sack 
suit  than  it  is  to  try  to  get  at  him  when  he's  got 
on  his  black  regimentals.  ...  I  wear  this  long 
black  coat  because  it  is,  in  a  sense,  the  official  robe  of 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  341 

my  great  office.  I  respect  it,  but  it  doesn't  make  a 
Christian  of  me  any  more  than  it  makes  one  of  the 
undertaker.  I  witnessed  a  negro  minstrel  parade  not 
long  ago.  All  told,  there  were  more  than  forty  Prince 
Albert  coats  in  that  procession.  But  those  fellows 
didn't  look  like  preachers.  So,  you  see,  it  isn't  a  ques 
tion  of  clothes.  ...  I  believe  we'd  all  feel  better 
for  it  if  we  stuck  a  small,  fragrant  nosegay  in  the 
lapels  of  our  coats  next  Sunday,  just  to  prove  to  our 
selves  that  church-going  is  a  joyous,  not  a  grim  under 
taking.  ...  I  do  not  like  to  see  a  man  singing 
Hallelujah  with  a  long  and  a  doleful  face.  Sing  it 
gladly!  That's  what  it  means." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  twenty-five  minute  sermon, 
and  while  the  congregation  was  fairly  shouting  the 
rare  old  hymn,  Eric  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked 
about  him  as  if  suddenly  aroused  from  a  sort  of  stupor. 
He  had  listened  in  frank  astonishment  during  the  first 
part  of  the  sermon;  toward  the  end  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  carried  away  by  the  earnestness  of  the  young  min 
ister.  He  was  disappointed  when  the  extraordinary 
discourse  came  to  an  end.  He  wanted  more.  Here 
was  a  man  with  a  gospel  so  broad,  and  convincing,  and 
brave  that  his  heart  warmed  toward  him  at  once.  This 
was  not  the  stern  gospel  that  Mr.  Presbrey  had  fairly 
jammed  down  his  throat  in  the  old  days.  He  had  the 
feeling  that  he  was  going  to  like  Mr.  King  as  a  man, 
as  a  friend,  as  a  brother.  It  would  be  quite  impossible 
to  ever  look  upon  him  as  a  relentless  arbiter  who  prodded 
one  with  texts  and  dogmas  until  the  soul  sickened. 
No;  this  man's  religion  smiled:  he  would  have  a  warm 
hand-clasp. 

"  I'll  bet  he's  a  fine  chap,"  whispered  Eric  in  Mary's 
ear.  She  nodded  her  head,  but  frowned  slightly  in  the 


342  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

fear  that  his  very  worldly  estimate  of  the  minister  might 
have  reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Blagden, 

Out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes  they  glanced  at 
their  uncle's  face.  It  was  beaming;  it  was  rapt. 

"  Wonders  have  been  performed,"  murmured  Eric. 
Then,  this  quaint  thought  found  expression  in  a  whis 
pered:     "You  can  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks,  after' 
all." 

An  old  habit  moved  him.  His  gaze  wandered,  as  it 
had  done  on  countless  Sundays  in  other  times,  to  the 
pew  in  which  Joan  Bright  and  her  father  always  sat. 

At  the  same  instant,  one  of  the  occupants  of  that  pew 
turned  to  look  directly  into  his  eyes. 

Joan  Bright  was  there.  For  one  long,  hazy  minute 
they  looked  at  each  other.  Then  a  slow,  even  curious 
smile  crept  into  her  face.  She  nodded  her  head.  He 
was  too  amazed,  too  dazed  to  respond  to  her  greeting 
at  once.  She  looked  away  before  he  could  shake  off 
the  spell  of  a  possible  illusion. 

Strangely  enough,  his  interest  in  the  service  was 
gone.  During  the  prayer  and  the  benediction  he  did 
not  take  his  eyes  from  the  half-averted,  serene  face  of 
the  girl  across  the  church.  It  was  not  until  the  service 
came  to  a  close  that  his  mind  grasped  the  fact  that  she 
stood  beside  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  who  held  the 
hymn-book  with  her,  while  Judge  Bright  stood  detached 
and  apart. 

With  the  final  "  amen,"  he  hurriedly  left  the  seat, 
after  a  quick  apology  to  his  uncle,  and  elbowed  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  bent  on  reaching  the  door  ahead 
of  her. 

If  he  had  paused  to  look  at  Mary,  he  would  have 
seen  the  wave  of  red  that  spread  over  her  cheek,  and 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  343 

the  curious  narrowing  of  her  eyes.  She  had  been  aware 
of  Joan's  presence  from  the  moment  that  young  woman 
entered  the  church. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  vestibule,  with  craning  neck 
and  eager  eyes,  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm. 

"  She  came  out  of  the  other  door,  Eric,  to  avoid  the 
crowd,  I  fancy,"  said  the  owner  of  the  hand.  "  She's 
getting  into  young  Sallonsby's  automobile  now.  Funny 
how  times  have  changed.  People  used  to  think  it  wrong 
to  go  to  church  in  a  carriage  when  I  was  a  — " 

"  So  it's  you,  is  it  ?  "  demanded  Eric  harshly. 

Joan  was  entering  the  big  red  car  at  the  curb.  She 
did  not  look  back.  His  eyes  were  upon  her.  He  had 
not  glanced  at  the  man  who  volunteered  the  informa 
tion.  He  knew  without  looking. 

"  Yes,"  said  Adam  Carr.  Then  he  added  whimsi 
cally  :  "  It's  always  me.  Come  along  with  me.  Don't 
wait  for  your  uncle.  I  have  news  for  you." 

Eric,  grievously  disturbed  by  Joan's  behavior,  suf 
fered  himself  to  be  led  down  the  steps.  At  the  bottom, 
he  turned  to  his  old  friend  with  a  sudden  anger  that 
must  have  attracted  the  attention  of  those  near  at  hand. 

"  I  suppose  you've  had  news  that  he  died,  just  as  you 
said  he  would." 

Adam  did  not  respond  to  the  angry  sarcasm  until 
they  were  clear  of  the  crowd. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  have  come  to  notify  your  uncle 
that  I've  given  up  the  chase." 

"  By  heaven,  it's  high  time ! "  cried  Eric. 

"  And  to  admit  that  I've  been  on  the  wrong  track 
all  the  time.  The  fellow  I've  been  chasing  all  these 
years  turns  out  not  to  be  Chetwynd  at  all." 

Eric  stared.     "  What  is  your  game  now  ?  " 


344  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Simply  this.  I'm  going  to  let  you  shoulder  the 
whole  business.  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the 
affair  on  the  bridge  or  what  transpired  afterward." 

"  You  mean  that  you  are  going  to  let  me  get  out  of  it 
as  best  I  can?  "  cried  Eric,  amazed. 

"  Let  us  cross  the  street.  Too  crowded  on  this  side. 
Fine  preacher,  that.  He's  making  Christians  just  as 
they  make  sardines  —  I  mean,  he's  packing  'em  in  the 
same  way." 

Once  across  the  street,  he  resumed  the  original  theme. 
"  My  boy,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it's  best 
for  you  to  tell  your  uncle  that  you  killed  Chetwynd. 
No  court  of  justice  can  convict  you  of  the  crime,  how 
ever.  The  corpus  delicti  must  be  established.  In  other 
words,  the  state  is  obliged  to  produce  the  body  of  the 
victim  in  order  to  prove  that  he  is  truly  and  legally 
deceased.  There  must  be  something  besides  verbal  tes 
timony  to  show  that  the  man  is  dead.  Technicalities 
are  great  life-savers.  I  once  knew  of  a  case  in  Chicago 
where  a  man  was  sent  up  for  life  for  murdering  his 
wife.  The  state  was  required  to  prove  the  corpus  de 
licti.  It  produced  one  of  the  metatarsal  bones  and 
said  it  was  a  part  of  the  dead  woman's  corporeal  body, 
although  some  of  the  experts  declared  it  to  be  from 
the  person  of  a  pig.  But  the  jury  decided  it  was  a 
part  of  the  woman,  and  convicted  the  prisoner.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  tiny  bone  he  would  have  gone 
scot-free.  So,  in  your  case,  there's  got  to  be  something 
to  show  that  Chetwynd  is  really  dead." 

"  But  I  will  swear  that  I  killed  him,"  said  Eric 
sharply. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  anything  to  say  about  it,"  said 
Adam  Carr  cheerfully.  "  Your  lawyer  would  see  to 
that.  He  would  demand  the  exhibits,  from  a  to  z, 


AFTER  THE  SERMON  345 

among  them  Chetwynd  or  a  part  of  him.  What's  a 
lawyer  for  if  not  to  attend  to  such  things  as  that?  " 

"  Is  that  what  you  came  here  to  tell  me?  "  demanded 
Eric. 

"  That,  and  this :  I  can't  afford  to  be  dragged  into 
this  thing.  It  means  ruin,  degradation.  I  merely  ask 
you  to  assume  the  entire  responsibility.  Leave  me  out 
of  it  altogether.  No  one  need  be  the  wiser." 

"  I  see,"  said  Eric  thoughtfully.  They  walked  along 
for  some  distance  in  silence.  Adam  was  watching  his 
friend  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

At  the  corner  below,  Eric  drew  up  sharply. 

"  You're  justified  in  asking  this  of  me,  Mr.  Adam," 
he  said,  knitting  his  brows.  "  You  have  stood  by  me, 
right  or  wrong.  I  am  not  so  ungrateful  that  I  will 
drag  you  down, —  ruin  you,  as  you  say.  I  won't  say 
that  I  condone  or  approve  the  uses  to  which  you  have 
put  this  unhappy  business  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  If  you  ask  it  of  me,  I  will  tell  my  story  without 
connecting  you  with  it  in  any  way  whatsoever.  Here's 
my  hand  on  it.  I've  tried  to  dislike  you,  but  I  find  that 
I  can't." 

Adam  Carr's  face  glowed.  He  uttered  a  little  cry 
of  relief  as  he  clasped  the  young  man's  hand. 

"  That's  all  I  wanted,  my  lad,"  he  said  briskly.  "  I 
wanted  to  see  if  you  were  true  blue,  so  far  as  your 
friends  are  concerned.  I  didn't  believe  you  could  go 
back  on  me,  after  you  saw  what  it  meant  to  me.  You 
would  have  told  long  ago  but  for  me.  Perhaps  you 
don't  realise  it,  but  you  would  have  told  everything 
the  other  day  if  you  hadn't  felt  that  it  would  be  doing 
me  a  grave  injustice.  Well,  I  know  it  if  you  don't. 
We've  stood  together  all  these  years,  my  boy,  and  we'll 
stand  together  now.  You've  got  something  to  confess 


346  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

to  Horace,  and  so  have  I.  My  crime  is  ten  thousand 
times  darker  than  yours.  It  isn't  conscience  that's 
working  on  me,  but  just  plain  fatigue.  I'm  sick  and 
tired  of  playing  with  Horace.  I  don't  sleep  of  nights. 
It's  got  on  my  nerves.  So,  if  you  don't  mind,  we'll 
face  him  together  —  this  afternoon." 

Eric  was  trembling  all  over.  "  Do  you  really  mean 
it,  Mr.  Adam  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  do.  And  we'll  not  put  off  till  to-morrow  what 
we  can  do  to-day." 

In  a  maze  of  wonder,  Eric  walked  on  beside  this 
strange,  amazing  man.  The  thought  never  entered 
his  head  that  Adam  Carr,  the  most  astute  and  calcu 
lating  of  men,  might  have  conceived  the  idea  that  his 
own  safety  lay  in  the  powerful  effect  Eric's  candour; 
would  have  on  Horace  Blagden.  This  is  not  saying 
that  Carr  secretly  cherished  a  conviction  of  that  sort, 
but  that  he  was  clever  enough  to  profit  by  the  perfectly 
obvious  conclusion. 

"  And  by  the  way,"  said  Adam,  with  a  speculative 
chuckle,  "  if  I'm  any  judge  of  human  nature, —  and 
I  profess  to  be, —  I  think  we'll  find  Miss  Bright  on  the 
right  side  of  the  fence  when  she  sees  you  are  in  trouble. 
It's  a  way  women  have." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TBUTHS    AND    LIES 

ON  the  church  steps,  Mr.  Blagden  looked  here  and  there 
in  quest  of  his  nephew.  He  had  stopped  inside  to  shake 
the  hand  of  the  engaging  young  minister,  and  to  com 
pare  notes  with  half-a-dozen  rock-ribbed  deacons. 
Eric  and  Adam  Carr  were  far  on  their  way  down  the 
street  when  he  emerged  with  Mary. 

She  had  seen  the  two  men,  however,  and  was  filled 
with  misgivings.  She  fell  into  the  natural  error  of 
suspecting  that  her  brother  had  hastened  away  to  meet 
Adam  Carr,  whereas  her  first  thoughts  attributed  his 
hasty  departure  to  a  desire  to  accost  Joan  Bright. 

Her  heart  rankled.  Joan  had  looked  past  her  during 
service  without  so  much  as  the  pretence  of  smile  or  nod. 
Mary's  sensitive,  high-strung  nature  rebelled  against 
this  exhibition  of  intolerance  on  the  part  of  her  old- 
time  friend  and  playmate.  While  Eric  was  squirming 
in  the  seat,  eager  to  be  off,  Mary  was  resentfully  dig 
ging  up  the  memory  of  Joan's  first  sign  of  coldness  and 
disfavour,  which  was  followed  later  on  by  the  cut  di 
rect.  It  all  came  about  after  an  all-night  automobile 
trip,  she  recalled,  when  she  had  taken  an  up-state  trip 
in  company  with  Jack  Payson  and  a  couple  of  friends 
from  New  York.  It  was  of  no  corisequence  to  the 
gossips,  who  told  the  tale,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bates  were 
in  the  party.  What  hurt  Mary  most,  even  though  she 
was  loth  to  admit  it  to  herself,  was  the  conviction  that, 
next  to  Eric  and  Payson,  she  still  loved  Joan  Bright 
better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world.  Therefore,  she  was 

347 


348  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

privileged  to  hate  her  with  particular  unreasonableness. 

"  Where  is  Eric,  my  dear?  "  asked  her  uncle,  peering 
about  in  all  directions. 

She  could  not  conceal  her  nervousness.  "  I  think  he 
hurried  out  to  see  Joan  Bright.  She's  back  from  the 
South,  Uncle." 

"  Indeed.  She  wasn't  expected  so  soon.  Why  did 
she  change  her  plans  so  hastily?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Haven't  you—" 

**  No,  I  haven't  seen  her,"  interrupted  Mary,  an 
swering  the  perfectly  obvious  question  before  it  could  be 
uttered. 

Mr.  Blagden  hemmed  rather  awkwardly.  "  Proba 
bly  came  in  last  night,"  he  vouchsafed.  "  I  daresay 
Eric  is  walking  home  with  her.  We  shan't  see  him  until 
—  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Presbrey.  Splendid  sermon, 
wasn't  it?  Good  morning,  Julia." 

The  Presbreys,  transversing  the  opposite  way,  ac 
knowledged  the  greeting  with  a  most  ceremonious  bow. 
It  did  not  occur  to  them  to  inform  Mr.  Blagden  that 
they  had  listened  to  the  sermon  in  the  Second  Congrega 
tional  Church. 

"  A  most  admirable  discourse,"  said  Mr.  Presbrey 
blandly. 

"  Scholarly,"  said  his  wife,  as  she  bestowed  her 
sweetest  smile  on  Mary.  "  So  you  are  back,  are  you, 
my  dear?  " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Presbrey,"  said  Mary,  also  smiling 
sweetly. 

Then  their  ways  diverged. 

A  little  later,  Mary  awoke  to  the  fact  that  her  uncle 
was  speaking,  not  so  much  to  her  as  to  the  world  in 
general. 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  349 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  Presbrej.  I  suppose  he  real 
ises  what  an  old  fogy  he  was  toward  the  end.  Still  he 
was  —  I  should  say  he  is  a  good  Christ-like  man.  He 
can't  have  any  bitterness  of  heart,  although  I  daresay 
he  —  er,  ahem !  deplores  the  fact  that  this  new  broom 
is  sweeping  so  thoroughly.  Dear  me,  he  never  saw  a 
congregation  so  vast  as  —  but  what  am  I  saying?  Yes, 
yes,  I  am  sorry  for  Presbrey.  I  don't  mind  saying  to 
you,  Mary,  that  he  has  been  on  my  conscience  not  a 
little  during  the  past  few  months.  I  can't  help  feeling 
that  I  took  a  rather  unfair  advantage  of  him  at  the 
time  of  — " 

"  Nonsense !  "  broke  in  Mary.  "  It  was  a  fair  fight 
between  you,  Uncle  Horace." 

"  A  fair  fight,  my  dear?  Fight?  "  said  Mr.  Blagden, 
with  a  stare. 

"  And  he  began  it,"  she  added  succinctly. 

Mr.  Blagden  cleared  his  throat.  "  Be  that  as  it  may," 
he  said  hastily,  "  I  feel  that  I  owe  him  some  form  of 
reparation.  I  have  quite  fully  decided  to  put  him  in 
charge  of  the  new  library." 

Eric  and  Adam  had  turned  a  distant  corner.  Mary 
breathed  freely  again. 

"  The  new  library  ?  "  she  repeated. 

Horace  affected  a  dry  chuckle.  "  You'll  see  it  all 
in  to-morrow's  Courier,"  he  said.  "  Eric's  to  build  it. 
The  handsomest  structure  outside  of  Boston,  if  I  do 
say  it." 

'*  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  Uncle 
Horace." 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  I  am  to  talk  it  over  with 
Eric  in  the  morning.  The  Courier  is  now  in  full  pos 
session  of  the  details." 

The  eager,  excited  questions  that  rose  to  her  lips 


350  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

were  left  unuttered.  John  Payson  approached  from 
the  opposite  direction.  Mary's  heart  gave  a  great, 
wild  throb,  and  then  seemed  to  stop  beating  entirely. 
Her  face  was  very  pale. 

Payson  did  not  pause,  but  went  by  with  a  warm  smile 
for  her  and  a  polite  bow  for  Horace  Blagden.  The 
smile  she  gave  in  return  was  a  wavering,  pathetic  effort 
that  went  straight  to  his  heart.  He  glanced  back  over 
his  shoulder,  and  was  disappointed  because  she  continued 
to  look  rigidly  ahead  instead  of  turning  as  he  had  done. 

"  Wasn't  that  young  Payson?  "  demanded  Horace, 
his  jaw  setting  hard. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Horace,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice. 

Silence  fell  between  them,  a  chill  silence  that  voiced 
their  thoughts  as  plainly  as  spoken  words.  She  cast 
-a  covert  look  at  the  stern  face  of  her  uncle.  A  flush 
•was  in  his  cheek.  A  moment  later,  he  turned  his  head 
slightly  for  a  brief  glance  at  the  girl's  profile.  Her 
eyes  were  lowered.  She  was  staring  miserably  at  the 
trick  sidewalk  which  they  traversed  so  evenly,  so 
steadily. 

Horace's  lips  seemed  to  tighten.  The  veins  in  his 
thin  grey  temples  stood  out  like  cords.  Suddenly  he 
relaxed;  his  stiff  shoulders  sagged;  a  queer  smile  forced 
its  way  out  of  the  hard,  set  lines  about  his  mouth,  and 
his  eyes  grew  wistful.  His  lips  parted  twice  in  the 
effort  to  utter  words  that  came  up  from  his  heart, 
words  he  hated,  yet  longed  to  utter,  for  he  knew  they 
would  give  happiness  to  her.  Something  tightened  in 
his  throat.  He  cast  an  involuntary  glance  over  his 
shoulder.  A  shadow  crossed  his  face,  dispelled  an  in 
stant  later  by  a  conquering  smile. 

"  Mary,  my  child,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  think,  if  you 
•don't  mind,  I  will  drop  in  at  Mr.  Briscoe's  for  a  few. 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  351 

minutes.  He  is  down  with  rheumatism.  I —  But, 
wait;  I  will  be  perfectly  frank  with  you.  John  Pay- 
son  is  standing  at  the  corner  back  there,  looking  at  you 
as  if  —  well,  I  fancy  if  I  were  to  efface  myself,  he 
would  not  be  long  in  taking  my  place  at  your  side.  I 
believe  I'll  make  the  experiment." 

Mary's  wonder  changed  to  joy.  Her  face  was  sud 
denly  as  radiant  as  the  sunshine  which  fell  about  them. 

"  Why, —  why,  Uncle  Horace,"  she  began  breath 
lessly. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  gate  leading  to  the  rheu 
matic  Mr.  Briscoe's  lawn. 

"  Try  the  experiment  yourself,  my  dear,"  he  said 
with  a  smile.  "  I  will  stroll  home  alone,  after  I've 
cheered  poor  old  Briscoe  up  a  bit." 

She  stood  at  the  gate,  watching  his  rather  swift  prog 
ress  up  the  gravel  walk. 

"  I  wonder  — "  she  murmured,  half  aloud,  and  then 
turned  her  eager  face  in  the  direction  of  the  corner 
above.  She  forgot  Eric  and  Adam  Carr  and  the  sink 
ing  feeling  she  had  experienced  on  seeing  them  together 
not  five  minutes  before.  There  is  something  immeas 
urably  selfish  in  young  love. 

Jack  Payson  came  striding  toward  her.  Perhaps, 
from  a  window  in  the  Briscoe  house,  Horace  saw  them 
meet  and  move  off  together,  down  the  street. 

An  hour  later,  she  said  good-bye  to  her  lover  at  the 
gate  and  hurried  up  the  walk  toward  the  suddenly  at 
tractive  portals  of  "  The  Giant's  Castle."  There  was 
a  gladness,  a  brightness  in  her  eyes;  a  song  in  her 
heart.  Somehow  the  world  was  brighter,  the  sun  was 
warmer,  the  buds  on  the  trees  were  greener  than  they 
had  ever  been  before.  She  tripped  up  the  steps  and 
fairly  danced  across  the  porch.  There  was  in  her  mind 


352  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

a  great  resolve  to  do  something  she  had  never  done  be 
fore:  to  put  her  arms  about  her  uncle's  neck  and  kiss 
him,  not  once,  but  many  times. 

She  paused  for  a  moment  just  outside  the  library 
door,  to  compose  herself.  As  she  stood  there,  breath 
ing  quickly,  the  curious  stillness  she  had  noticed  on 
entering  the  house  became  more  pronounced.  She  re 
called,  with  a  shudder,  having  been  in  a  house  once 
where  a  dead  woman  was  lying  upstairs  in  the  winding 
sheet.  The  utter  stillness  of  that  well-remembered 
house  was  not  unlike  this  that  now  closed  in  about  her, 
smothering  the  joy  that  so  lately  radiated  from  her 
warm,  throbbing  heart. 

Half  in  fear,  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
library  door.  A  moment  passed  before  she  turned  it. 
The  sense  of  impending  disaster  increased  with  each 
second  of  delay.  What  had  happened?  Who  in  the 
house  was  dead? 

The  door  opened  quietly,  slowly,  and  she  looked  into 
the  partially  darkened  room.  No  voice  called  out  a 
welcome  to  her. 

The  shade  in  the  big  front  window  was  high;  that 
end  of  the  room  was  flooded  with  sunlight.  Her  eyes 
were  slow  to  take  in  the  details  of  the  picture  that  lay 
before  her.  So  immovable,  so  still  were  the  four  fig 
ures  that  made  up  the  tableau  that  she  could  think  of 
them  only  as  statues. 

First,  and  naturally,  her  gaze  fell  upon  the  square, 
thick-set  figure  in  the  window.  Adam  Carr  was  stand 
ing  there,  his  back  to  the  room,  his  hands  clasped  be 
hind  him,  staring  at  the  porch  through  the  white  lace 
curtains.  It  was  as  if  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  a 
particularly  harrowing  scene. 

Eric  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  his   chin  low- 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  353 

ered,  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast, —  the  picture  of 
utter  dejection.  On  the  sofa  before  him  sat  his  uncle 
and  aunt,  the  former  stiffly  upright  and  tense,  the  latter 
drooping  limply  against  him,  her  hands  covering  her 
eyes. 

It  was  all  over.  Eric  had  confessed!  The  blow  had 
fallen. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  length  of  time, 
her  brother  lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  her  standing  there, 
stunned,  irresolute.  He  stared  for  a  moment  with 
haggard  eyes,  and  then  let  his  arms  drop  limply  to 
his  side.  The  act  was  in  itself  an  acknowledgment 
of  potent  despair.  Then,  with  a  movement  of  his 
head,  he  directed  her  to  attend  the  stricken  pair  on 
the  sofa. 

As  she  glided  across  the  room,  Adam  Carr  turned 
from  the  window  and  swiftly  left  the  room,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  four  persons  who  were  left 
to  play  out  the  drama.  With  deliberate  intent,  he 
banged  the  library  door  in  closing  it.  The  shock  served 
its  purpose.  It  broke  the  spell. 

With  infinite  gentleness,  Mary  drew  Mrs.  Blagden's 
stiff,  cold  hands  away  from  her  face  and  held  them  close 
to  her  own  warm,  heaving  breast.  Mrs.  Blagden  stared 
blankly,  even  wonderingly  at  the  face  of  the  girl.  The 
white,  drawn  lips  moved  in  a  voiceless  question. 

"  They  know  everything,"  came  in  hoarse  tones  from 
Eric. 

The  tears  sprang  to  Mary's  eyes.  Through  the  mist 
that  blinded  them,  they  asked  the  great,  important  ques 
tion  of  him. 

"  How  can  I  ask  them  to  forgive  me  ?  "  he  groaned, 
and  that  was  his  answer  to  the  question  that  lay  in  her 
eyes. 


354  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mrs.  Blagden's  lips  parted.  A  dead,  lifeless  voice 
uttered  these  words : 

"  Let  me  be  alone  with  you,  Horace.  Let  me  die  with 
your  arms  about  me." 

Then  it  was  that  Horace  relaxed.  His  strong  gaze 
wavered.  A  great  shudder  ran  over  his  frame. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  fell  clearly, 
mechanically  from  his  lips.  His  eyes  were  upon  the 
white  face  of  his  nephew.  "  We  know  all  there  is  to 
know.  It  is  all  over.  The  truth  at  last."  His  voice 
rose  to  a  sort  of  wail.  "I  —  I  can't  understand  why 
you  have  allowed  us  to  suffer  all  these  years,  Eric,  when 
one  word  from  you  would  have  ended  our  misery,  our 
uncertainty,  our  —  our  endless  waiting.  See !  See 
what  it  has  cost  us !  " 

"God  forgive  me!"  groaned  Eric,  burying  his  face 
in  the  arm  that  now  rested  on  the  mantel. 

With  an  effort,  Horace  struggled  to  his  feet.  Slowly 
he  crossed  over  to  the  young  man's  side,  towering  above 
the  bent,  shaking  figure.  After  a  moment's  hesitation, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Eric's  shoulder.  His  nephew 
cringed. 

"  Give  me  time,"  he  began,  but  went  back  to  correct 
himself,  revealing  the  new  phase  that  marked  his  manner 
in  these  days.  "  Give  us  time,  Eric.  It  is  hard  to 
take  all  this  in  at  once.  We  must  work  it  out  for  our 
selves  and  by  ourselves.  Just  your  aunt  and  I.  When 
the  shock  has  worn  off."  He  was  speaking  jerkily, 
brokenly,  as  if  the  effort  to  control  himself  was  trying 
his  every  power.  "  We  do  not  want  to  be  harsh,  or 
unjust,  Eric.  We  shall  seek  — " 

Eric  looked  up,  amazed.  "Harsh?  Unjust?"  he 
said  bitterly.  "  Why,  I've  forfeited  all  claim  to  — " 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  355 

"  Hush,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Blagden.  "  Give  us 
time, —  give  us  time." 

Mary,  in  the  intensity  of  a  great  emotion,  cried  out 
shrilly :  "  He  didn't  mean  to  —  to  kill  him,  Uncle. 
You  know  he  did  not  mean  — " 

Mrs.  Blagden  shook  herself  free  and  turned  on  the 
girl.  There  was  a  wild,  insane  glare  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  threatened  Chetwynd  a  hundred  times,"  she  said 
harshly.  "A  hundred  times!  He  hated  him!  He 
wanted  to  kill  him !  " 

"  My  dear,  my  dear !  "  pleaded  Horace.  "  Calm 
yourself.  Let  us  judge  this  poor  boy  as  God  will  judge 
him.  Remember,  we  called  him  our  son  but  yesterday." 

"  I  cannot  —  I  cannot  forgive,"  moaned  his  wife, 
falling  back  limply.  "  Don't  touch  me  —  now !  "  she 
cried  out  to  the  girl,  who  would  have  caught  her  in  her 
arms.  Mary  shrank  back,  repulsed. 

A  full  minute  passed,  fraught  with  tragic  misery. 
Eric  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  have  told  you  everything.  Adam  Carr  has  sup 
ported  my  story.  If  you  think  he  would  lie  to  save  me 
or  himself  — " 

"  No,"  said  Horace  grimly,  "  Adam  Carr  would  not 
lie.  He  hates  me  too  well  to  lie  to  me.  The  truth 
always  hurts  worse  than  a  lie,  and  he  knows  it.  I  be 
lieve  you,  Eric.  You  have  never  been  anything  but 
honest.  It  isn't  that.  It's  the  other  thing.  The  long 
years  we've  been  allowed  to  suffer." 

"  You  would  have  sent  me  to  the  gallows  if  you  had 
known  all  this  five  years  ago,"  said  Eric  drearily. 
"  Everything  was  different  five  years  ago.  You  were 
different.  You  would  have  had  no  mercy,  no  pity  in 
those  days." 


356  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"You  think  I've  changed?  You  were  not  afraid  to 
risk  confession  to-day.  Is  that  it?  " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Eric  hastily.  "  I  don't  mean  that. 
But  I  was  afraid  at  the  time.  Afterwards  it  was  too 
late.  I  —  but  I've  said  all  this  before.  Why  go  over 
it  again.  I  am  the  confessed  slayer  of  your  son,  my 
own  cousin.  Now  I  ask  to  be  given  a  fair  trial,  a  just 
hearing.  That's  all." 

Mr.  Blagden  said  nothing  for  a  few  moments.  He 
was  studying  the  young  man's  face. 

"  You  came  out  with  the  truth  because  you  were 
sorry  for  us,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Because  you  wanted  to 
end  our  suffering  and  suspense?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eric.  "  I  could  have  gone  forever  with 
out  telling  if  I  had  so  desired." 

"  And  you  were  not  afraid  that  some  day  Adam  Carr 
would  betray  you?  You  have  never  felt  that  he  had  a 
weapon  to  hold  over  you  and  to  strike  if  he  saw  fit,  to 
suit  purposes  of  his  own  ?  " 

Eric  hesitated.  "  No,  I've  never  really  been  afraid 
of  Adam  Carr.  If  I  had  been  afraid  of  him  I  should 
never  have  come  to  you  with  the  truth.  He  did  hold  it 
over  my  head,  but, —  well,  here  I  am,  sir.  I  was  not 
afraid  of  him." 

"  It  had  to  do  with  Mary  and  John  Pay  son?  " 

"  Yes.     I  will  be  frank." 

"  You  told  us  the  truth  because  you  were  sorry  for 
us  —  because  — "  His  voice  faltered.  "  Because  you 
loved  us  after  all  and  could  not  let  it  go  on  any 
longer?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Conscience  ha3  nothing  to  do  with  it?  The  fear 
of  God  was  not  in  your  heart  ?  " 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  357 

Eric  did  not  hesitate.  "  No.  My  conscience,  so  far 
as  the  death  of  Chetwynd  is  concerned,  is  clear.  I  had 
no  fear  of  God,  for  God  was  my  witness." 

Mr.  Blagden  again  laid  his  hand  on  his  nephew's 
shoulder. 

"  Is  it  love  or  pity  ?  "  he  asked,  his  voice  shaking. 

Eric  was  honest.  He  looked  squarely  into  his  uncle's 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  can't  explain.  I  used  to  hate 
you  and  Aunt  Rena.  I  do  not  hate  you  now.  Some 
how,  I  have  changed." 

"  Somehow,  we  have  changed,"  said  Horace,  correct 
ing  him.  "  We  should  not  have  expected  you  to  love 
us,  when,  God  forgive  me  for  saying  it, —  when  our  own 
son  did  not  love  us.  Do  not  interrupt.  If  he  had 
loved  us  he  would  not  be  where  he  is  to-day.  My  boy, 
I  will  not  say  to  you  now  that  I  forgive  you.  It  is 
not  yet  in  my  heart  to  do  so.  I  must  have  it  all  out 
with  myself,  with  God  as  my  counsellor.  You  took  the 
life  of  my  son.  You  —  Rena,  I  beg  of  you !  " 

Mrs.  Blagden  had  risen,  and  stood  wavering  before 
the  two  men,  on  the  verge  of  utter  collapse.  She  put 
out  her  hand  and  touched  her  husband's  arm. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  with  you,  Horace.  Will  you 
come  ?  "  she  said  dully. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  cried,  putting  his  arm  around  her 
shoulders.  "  We  will  go,  we  will  go,  my  dear." 

"  Wait,'*  she  said.  Then  she  turned  directly  to  Eric. 
"  Eric,  you  should  not  have  let  your  uncle  suffer  all 
these  years.  It  was  cruel  of  you  to  — " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,"  broke  in  Mr.  Blagden,  un 
steadily.  "  You  were  the  great  sufferer.  I  —  I  was 
going  about  among  men  all  the  time.  You  sat  here 


358  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

alone  and  —  my  God !  How  long  the  years  have  been  1 
My  dear,  my  dear !  How  long  we  have  waited  together, 
you  and  I !  " 

He  broke  down  completely.  With  the  frail  form 
cf  his  wife  clasped  tightly  to  his  breast,  he  lowered 
his  head  until  his  face  was  buried  in  the  silken  white 
hair. 

Eric's  lips  moved  in  a  mute  appeal;  his  hands  went 
out  toward  them  and  then  fell  to  his  sides.  With 
a  dry,  racking  sob  in  his  throat,  he  turned  away, 
staggering  blindly  toward  the  window.  Mary  came  up 
with  him  quickly.  She  slipped  her  arm  about  his 
shoulders  and  whispered  words  of  comfort  and  hope. 

The  shuffling  of  unsteady,  dragging  feet  drew  their 
visual  attention  once  more  to  the  pair  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  Mr.  Blagden  had  started  to  leave  the  li 
brary  ;  he  was  making  his  way  toward  the  door  with  the 
bent  figure  of  his  wife  at  his  side,  his  arm  about  her 
waist  for  support.  The  old  man's  head  was  held  high 
and  his  eyes  were  set. 

Eric  sprang  forward  to  assist  him,  but  was  waved 
aside.  Humbly  the  young  man  walked  before  them 
and  opened  the  door  for  them  to  pass  out  into  the 
jhall. 

"  I  can  almost  see  the  struggle  on  the  bridge,"  said 
Horace,  addressing  no  one  in  particular.  "  It  appears 
to  me  as  if  in  a  vision.  I  can  see  Chetwynd  hurling  the 
stone  at  Eric,  and  the  savage  attack  that  came  after.  I 
can  hear  the  things  he  was  saying  of  Mary, —  those 
brutal,  vicious  things.  The  fight  was  fair.  God  called 
my  boy  to  the  judgment  bar.  It  was  his  time  to  go. 
It  was  not  an  accident.  It  was  God's  will.  No  human 
agency  could  have  checked  the  will  of  God  — " 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  359 

A  man  was  standing  near  the  hat-rack  in  the  hall. 
Eric  stared,  unbelieving. 

Mr.  Blagden's  gaze  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  mo 
tionless  figure.  Then  his  long,  thin  arm  was  raised; 
a  quivering  hand  pointed  toward  the  door  leading  to  the 
porch. 

"  Leave  my  house !  " 

Adam  Carr  did  not  move.  "  I  just  wanted  to  say  — " 
he  began. 

"  Go ! " 

"  I  can't  go  until  I  have  said  — " 

"  Go,  I  say !  "  Horace's  voice  shook  with  suppressed 
fury. 

" — until  I  have  said  that  I  am  sorry  to  have  been 
the  cause  of  so  much  anguish  to  your  wife,  toward 
whom  I  have  had  no  feeling,"  persisted  Adam  patiently. 
"  I  am  sorry  for  what  I've  done  to  her.  My  grudge 
was  against  you." 

"  Hard  as  flint,"  fell  from  Horace's  twisted  lips. 

"  To  strike  fire  from  flint,"  was  the  other's  sharp  re 
tort. 

"  You  have  not  found  me  so  hard  as  you  suspected," 
said  Horace  slowly.  "  Not  hard  enough  to  give  out 
fire  when  you  strike  in  these  days." 

"  Nor  am  I  so  hard,  Horace  Blagden,"  said  Adam, 
for  the  first  time  revealing  a  sign  of  nervousness. 
"  Well,  I'll  go  now.  If  you  need  me,  Eric,  I'll  be 
ready.  A  black  Sunday." 

"  You  have  failed  there,"  cried  Horace,  a  thrill  in  his 
voice  almost  of  triumph.  "  It  is  a  bright  Sunday.  We 
see  the  light  for  the  first  time  in  years.  Go,  sir.  Eric 
will  not  need  you.  We  shall  ask  no  favours  of  you, 
Adam  Carr." 


S60  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Carr  allowed  his  gaze  to  rest  on  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Blagden  for  an  instant.  She  was  regarding  him  with 
unspeakable  loathing  in  her  eyes;  the  crushed,  beaten 
spirit  was  answering  the  call  of  pride.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  speak  his  last  word  to  her,  met  the  look  in  her 
eyes,  bowed  awkwardly,  and  strode  from  the  house  with 
out  uttering  another  syllable. 

"  I  cannot  turn  the  other  cheek  to  him, —  I  cannot," 
grated  Horace.  "  *  Love  your  enemy  as  yourself!' 
Bah !  Puerile  nonsense !  " 

Brother  and  sister  watched  them  ascend  the  stairs  and 
return  down  the  hall.  A  moment  later  a  door  above  was 
gently  closed. 

"Did  you  hear  what  he  said?"  asked  Mary,  in  a 
half -whisper.  "  He  said  '  Eric  will  not  need  you ! '  Oh, 
Errie,  Errie,  he  means  to  be  kind,  he  means  to  be  just." 

Eric  groaned.  "  Kind !  Just !  After  what  I've 
done  for  him." 

She  spoke  eagerly.  "  He  realises  that  he  has  not 
always  been  kind  or  just  to  you.  He  — " 

"  See  here,  Mary,  you  don't  know  all  that  happened 
in  there  before  you  came.  He  cursed  me  at  first.  He 
called  me  a  murderer.  He  laughed  when  I  said  that  I 
was  ready  and  willing  to  give  myself  up  to  the  law. 
He  said  there  was  no  law  that  could  punish  me  suffi 
ciently.  The  change  of  front  came  after  all  this.  Oh,  I 
know  how  he  feels  —  how  he  feels  in  his  heart.  He  — " 

"  That  was  madness,  fury,"  she  cried.  "  He  couldn't 
help  it.  He  was  beside  himself.  Now  he  is  beginning 
to  see  clearly.  He  is  a  fair  man." 

"  Just  the  same,  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  give  my 
self  up  to  the  law  and  stand  trial.  I  — " 

She  cried  out  piteously.  **  You  must  not  do  that ! 
You  shall  not!" 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  361 

"  It  isn't  for  Uncle  Horace  alone  to  acquit  me  of 
manslaughter.  That's  what  Adam  says  the  charge  will 
be.  The  court  must  do  it.  And,  listen:  if  I  wait  for 
Uncle  Horace  to  file  the  affidavit  against  me,  if  I  wait 
for  him  to  bring  me  into  court,  it  will  never  come  to 
pass.  He  won't  do  it.  It  will  be  his  turn  to  punish 
me.  He  will  sit  back  and  let  the  charge  hang  over  me 
for  years,  just  as  I  have  done  by  him  in  a  different  way. 
Oh,  I  know  him!  He  doesn't  forgive  so  readily.  He 
has  Adam  Carr  and  me  just  where  he  wants  us.  And 
fo'tt  be  content  to  let  us  wait,  just  as  he  has  waited." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong.  He  will  do  one  of  two 
things.  He  will  bring  charges  against  you,  or  he  will 
openly  exonerate  you.  He  will  issue  a  statement,  mark 
my  words." 

"  Besides,"  went  on  Eric,  knitting  his  brows  in 
thought,  "  if  I  want  to  be  brought  to  trial  and  legally 
acquitted  of  crime,  I  must  not  put  him  in  the  false  po 
sition  of  complaining  against  me  if  he  really  means  to 
acquit  me  in  his  own  mind  and  heart.  I  must  do  it  all 
myself.  He  may  not  aid  in  the  prosecution,  there  is 
that  much  to  be  said.  But  if  I  don't  give  myself  up, 
the  state's  attorney  will  force  him  to  take  action.  It's 
got  to  come,  so  I  might  as  well  shoulder  the  whole  of  it 
and  let  Uncle  Horace  out  of  an  unpleasant  job." 

Her  protests  were  of  no  avail.  He  announced  his  in 
tention  to  deliver  himself  up  to  the  sheriff  the  next 
morning. 

"  It's  a  bailable  offence,"  he  said.  "  Adam  Carr 
says  I  will  not  have  to  go  to  gaol  if  I  have  a  bondsman 
ready.  I  am  sure  I  will  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  — " 

"  What  will  Joan  say  when  she  hears  of  all  this  ?  " 
cried  the  unhappy  girl,  falling  back  on  resources  she 
have  despised  an  hour  ago. 


362  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  in  pain.  "  I  wonder  if  what 
Adam  said  will  turn  out  to  be  true." 

The  remark  would  have  puzzled  her  at  another  time. 
Now  she  passed  it  over  without  comment.  A  new 
thought  had  occurred  to  her. 

"  You  must  go  to  Jack.  Tell  everything  to  him. 
He  will  help  you.  He  is  strong  and  — " 

"  I  could  have  told  him  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  but 
not  to-day.  It's  too  late  now." 

Martha,  the  life-long  servant  in  the  house,  was  com 
ing  down  the  stairs. 

"  Dinner's  been  waiting  nearly  an  hour,  Miss  Mary," 
she  said  peevishly.  "  Everything's  spoilt,  and  it's  Gun- 
day,  too.  I  knocked  on  their  door  twice,  but  Mr. 
Horace  says,  without  opening,  to  never  mind,  they  won't 
be  down,  but  for  you  young  folks  to  go  on  eating.  Do 
hurry.  Belinda's  mad  as  she  c'n  be.  I  don't  blame 
her  either.  It's  terrible  for  a  cook  —  and  an  Irish  cook 
at  that  —  to  be  —  Why,  Mr.  Eric,  you  surely  can't  be 
going  out  now !  " 

Eric  had  grabbed  up  his  hat, —  an  old  slouch  hat  in 
stead  of  the  tall  silk  one  he  had  worn  to  church, —  and 
was  striding  toward  the  porch. 

"  I  can't  eat  anything, —  I'm  not  hungry,"  he  stam 
mered  distractedly.  "  I'm  going  out  for  a  while,  Mary. 
Stay  around  close,  please,  and  see  that  —  that  every 
thing's  all  right  upstairs." 

"  Ain't  nobody  going  to  eat  — "  began  Martha,  al 
most  in  a  state  of  collapse. 

He  was  flying  down  the  steps  and  across  the  lawn, 
leaving  Mary  in  the  doorway  looking  after  him  with 
troubled,  uneasy  eyes.  She  saw  him  vault  the  wall  and 
make  off  in  the  direction  of  Jabez  Carr's  cottage.  After 
a  moment  she  turned  to  Martha. 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  363 

"  I  shan't  disappoint  you,  Martha.  I'm  hungry. 
Come  along." 

That  was  always  the  way  with  Mary.  She  was  a 
philosopher.  She  was  content  to  leave  everything  to 
Providence^ — or  luck?  Meanwhile,  she  was  hungry. 

Her  brother  made  straight  for  old  Jabe's  cottage. 
Somehow,  he  felt  in  need  of  an  old  friend  —  one  who 
could  lie  to  him  joyously.  He  suddenly  was  longing 
for  the  vainglorious  lies  that  had  charmed  his  boyhood 
fancy,  even  though  he  knew  them  to  be  lies.  He  wanted 
to  hear  something  beside  the  truth.  The  truth  was  an 
ugly  thing  —  a  very  ugly  thing.  Why  do  people  ever 
tell  the  truth?  His  soul  hungered  for  lies, —  the  gay, 
delightful  lies  that  old  Jabe  could  tell.  Harmless  lies, 
they  could  hurt  no  one,  not  even  the  teller  of  them. 

Uncle  Jabe  was  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  doorstep, 
and  gently  but  quite  audibly  berating  a  squirrel  which  re 
fused  to  come  to  eat  out  of  his  hand,  a  most  insulting 
thing  for  a  squirrel  to  do,  if  one  could  judge  by  the 
scornful  remarks  of  the  gate-keeper. 

"  Hello ! "  he  called  out  in  his  cracked  voice  to  Eric 
as  the  young  man  unlatched  the  gate.  Somewhat  sum 
marily,  he  cast  a  handful  of  peanuts  at  the  very  head 
of  the  astonished  squirrel,  and  hobbled  over  to  meet  his 
visitor.  "  Dang  little  fool  of  an  idiot,"  he  complained, 
as  a  final  opinion  of  the  scurrying  quadruped.  "  Starve, 
if  you  want  to."  This  in  the  face  of  thoughtless 
prodigality.  "  Well,  well,  Eric,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Where  you  been  keepin'  yourself?  " 

Eric  wrung  the  gnarled  old  paw.  Presently  they 
were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  bench,  leaning  back 
against  the  wall  of  the  cottage. 

"  Uncle  Jabe,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  that  story  again 
of  the  fight  you  had  with  the  pirates  who  held  Lady; 


S64  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Imogen  in  captivity.  That  was  the  very  best  thing  you 
ever  did.  Tell  it  once  more." 

Jabez  scratched  his  head,  blinking  his  faded  little 
eyes  in  considerable  surprise  and  embarrassment.  He 
coughed  rather  dismally.  "I  —  I  can't  jest  exactly 
place  that  —  Oh,  yes,  I  know  the  one.  But  you  see, 
Eric,  that  was  the  most  gosh-all-whacking  lie  of  all." 

"  Never  mind.  That's  just  why  I  want  to  hear  it. 
Go  on,  please." 

The  ancient  regarded  him  speculatively.  "  You  are 
jest  like  a  teeny  little  kid.  They're  always  askin'  you 
to  tell  the  same  story  over  and  over  ag'in." 

"  I'm  kind  of  lonesome,  just  for  one  of  your  whack- 
ingest  ones,  Uncle  Jabe,"  said  Eric,  rather  plaintively. 
"  Don't  tell  me  a  true  one." 

"  By  ginger,  I  ain't  got  any  true  ones,"  exclaimed 
Jabez,  very  truthfully.  "  Leastwise,  I  can't  remember 
the  true  ones.  My  memory  ain't  what  it  used  to  be. 
Come  to  that,  I'm  danged  if  I  believe  I  can  recollect  the 
lies  either.  It's  powerful  unhandy  to  have  to  remem 
ber  what's  lies  and  what  ain't." 

"  But  the  one  about  Lady  Imogen  was  a  fine  one." 

Jabez  was  racking  his  brain.  "  It  must  ha'  been," 
he  mused  sadly.  "  That's  why  it's  slipped  my  mind. 
Who  was  she?  I  mean,  this  here  Lady  Imogen  you're 
talkin'  about." 

"  The  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Gaystone,"  supplied 
the  grown-up  child. 

"  Um,"  said  Jabez  uncomfortably.  "  She  couldn't 
ha*  been.  There  never  was  a  Earl  of  Gaystone.  Say, 
see  that  squirrel  over  yander?  The  blamed  little  — " 

"  Tell  another  one,  if  you  can't  remember  that  one," 
Eric  broke  in.  "  I'm  actually  homesick  for  one  of  your 


TRUTHS  AND  LIES  365 

good  old  tales.  I  want  to  go  back  to  the  old  days, 
Uncle  Jabe." 

"  Somethin'  gone  wrong,  my  lad?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eric,  leaning  his  head  against  the  wall 
and  staring  up  at  the  tree-tops. 

Jabez  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"All  right,"  said  he  gently.  "I'll  tell  you  a  new 
one  —  a  rig-snorter." 


CHAPTER  XX 

"  ON    INFORMATION    AND    BELIEF  " 

JOAN  BRIGHT  walked  briskly  up  Blagden  Avenue  the 
next  morning.  The  day  was  warm,  and  sweet,  and 
spring-like;  the  sky  was  blue;  the  trees  were  beginning 
to  don  their  gay  greenery,  and  the  dead  leaves  of  last 
fall  no  longer  littered  the  well-kept  lawns. 

She  was  abroad  early,  bound  for  the  home  of  Horace 
Blagden,  to  see  Mary  Midthorne.  Her  blithe  young 
heart  would  not  stay  closed  against  the  wayward  friend ; 
she  was  off  to  make  peace  with  her  and  to  beg  forgive 
ness  for  her  own  shortcomings. 

She  had  thought  it  all  out.  She  had  been  thinking 
it  all  out  for  weeks  and  months.  After  all,  what  had 
Mary  done  that  was  so  deserving  of  reproach?  Noth 
ing, —  nothing  at  all,  Miss  Bright  was  arguing,  when 
one  came  to  sift  out  the  facts  of  the  case.  For  that 
matter,  had  not  her  own  judgment  of  Mary's  frivolities 
been  formed  while  she  was  still  under  the  influence  of 
those  back-number  morals  of  the  old  Corinth?  She  had 
pronounced  herself  broad-minded,  even  in  the  old  days 
before  the  reconstruction;  now  she  realised  that  she  had 
been  narrow  —  not  so  narrow  as  the  rest  of  them, 
Heaven  forbid !  —  but  disposed  to  a  shortness  of  vision 
that  did  not  permit  her  to  see  far  beyond  the  confines 
of  a  very  small  circumference. 

In  some  unaccountable  way,  she  theorised,  everything 
in  Corinth  had  undergone  a  subtle  change.  Church- 
going,  for  instance,  struck  her  as  a  rather  sprightly 
proceeding  nowadays,  instead  of  the  laboriously  som- 

366 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      367 

bre  duty  it  once  had  been.  Corinth,  throughout  all  its 
concentrated  life,  had  gone  to  church  with  a  stately  en 
ergy  ;  now  it  seemed  to  have  conceived  the  idea  it  was 
pleasanter  to  go  about  it  cheerfully,  gladly,  even 
springily.  Joan  found  herself  comparing  Corinth  with 
other  satisfying  places  in  the  great  big  world,. —  not 
the  Babylons,  but  the  clean,  wholesome,  alive  places 
where  one  could  take  a  deep  breath  of  God's  air  and  not 
feel  contaminated  because  the  ungodly  shared  it  in  com 
mon. 

Blagden  Avenue  was  no  wider  than  it  had  ever  been; 
it  just  seemed  to  her  that  it  was.  What  influence  had 
been  at  work  to  open  the  front  room  window  blinds  in  all 
the  houses  along  the  Avenue,  not  only  on  week  days  but 
on  the  Sabbath?  The  front  room  or  parlour  gloom  of 
sanctuary  no  longer  prevailed,  she  noticed  that.  Sun 
day  nowadays  found  the  light  streaming  into  those  prim 
and  virtuous  rooms  with  all  the  glory  it  could  produce. 
She  recalled  other  days,  not  so  far  off,  when  Corinth 
closed  its  front-room  shutters  for  fear  the  world  might 
look  within  and  break  the  holy  Sabbath  day.  Now 
Corinth  sat  on  its  front  porches  and  gave  welcome  to  the 
Sabbath  all  day  long. 

No  wonder  the  town  seemed  new  to  her,  and  bet 
ter. 

She  recalled  certain  comments  her  father  had  made  in 
the  automobile  the  day  before  while  they  were  being 
whisked  homeward  after  that  uplifting  service. 

"  Blagden  Avenue  seems  broader  than  it  was  yester 
day,"  he  had  said. 

"  It  is  quite  as  wide,  literally,  as  Broadway,  Judge 
Bright,'*  said  young  Mr.  Sallonsby. 

"  Ah,  but  the  whole  world  is  in  Broadway." 

"  I  think  the  world  is  just  beginning  to  take  notice  of 


368  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Blagden  Avenue,"  was  the  young  man's  comment.  He 
meant  to  be  sarcastic,  but  merely  spoke  the  truth. 

"  The  world  isn't  so  bad  as  it's  painted." 

"  Depends  on  local  colour,"  said  the  young  man,  air 
ing  himself  epigrammatically.  He  felt  rather  proud 
of  it. 

"  And  whether  you  look  up  or  down,"  completed  the 
Judge. 

And  so,  said  Joan  to  herself  that  night  after  Sal- 
lonsby  had  taken  his  departure,  it  all  depends  on  the 
way  one  looked  at  Mary  Midthorne's  so-called  indiscre 
tions.  She  was  rather  ashamed  of  herself  for  having 
peeped  at  them  from  behind  closed  front-room  shutters, 
so  to  speak. 

Moreover,  she  had  treated  Eric  rather  cavalierly  after 
church.  Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  that  which 
kept  her  awake  nearly  all  of  the  night,  trying  to  blot 
out  the  expression  she  had  caught  in  his  eyes. 

She  wondered  if  she  would  see  him  that  morning. 
How  handsome,  how  manly  he  had  looked  —  But  how 
now !  She  was  on  her  way  to  see  Mary  and  no  one 
else.  She  reminded  herself  of  this  at  least  a  dozen 
times  during  her  progress  up  Blagden  Avenue. 

Suddenly  her  heart  began  to  beat  furiously,  the  colour 
came  and  went  in  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  experienced  a 
curious  effect  of  momentary  uselessness. 

Eric  Midthorne  had  turned  the  corner  above  and  was 
approaching  her  with  long,  vigorous  strides,  his  head 
lowered,  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets.  The  gray  Fe 
dora  hat  was  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes.  He  looked 
up  when  he  was  twenty  yards  away,  and  saw  her. 

His  face,  which  had  been  pale  and  worn  a  moment 
before,  was  now  a  dusky  red.  On  the  instant,  hers  be 
came  flushed  and  hot. 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      369 

She  extended  her  gloved  little  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Eric,"  she  said. 

They  were  looking  squarely  into  each  other's  eyes  as 
if  fascinated. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  see  your  father,"  said  he,  the 
breath  suddenly  gone  from  his  lungs.  He  spoke  as  if 
it  were  a  physical  effort  to  do  so.  Then,  as  if  remem 
bering  himself,  he  released  her  hand. 

She  waited  a  moment.  "  In  regard  to  the  plans  ?  " 
she  asked  in  the  same  manner  and  quite  without  purpose. 
She  could  feel  the  blood  roaring  in  her  head. 

"  Yes.  I  —  I  can't  undertake  the  work,"  he  replied, 
the  words  coming  rapidly.  **  I  must  give  it  up.  He'll 
have  to  get  someone  else." 

Her  eyes  fell ;  her  cheeks  lost  their  vivid  colour. 

"I  —  he  won't  let  you  off,  Eric,"  she  stammered. 
"  I  am  sure  he  will  not." 

His  smile  was  not  pleasant  to  see. 

"  A  great  deal  has  happened  since  the  bargain  was 
made,"  he  said.  The  word  "  bargain "  possessed  an 
ominous,  even  accusing  sound  for  her. 

She  met  his  gaze.  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  see  Mary 
now,"  she  said,  as  if  that  explained  everything  that  had 
passed. 

His  face  brightened.  "  You  are  ?  I'm  glad,  Joan. 
Nothing  should  come  between  you  two.  Mary  loves 
you." 

"  Then  it  will  be  all  right,"  said  she,  eagerly.  "  I 
was  quite  wrong  —  stupidly  wrong.  I  hope  she  will 
understand  and  —  and  overlook  some  of  the  — " 

"  Why  couldn't  you  have  written  me  that  you'd 
ceased  to  care,  Joan  ?  "  he  broke  in  regardless.  "  Why 
did  you  let  me  go  on  thinking  that  you  —  But,  good 
heaven,  what  am  I  saying?  You  are  right.  You  have 


370  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

made  it  easy  for  me.  It  would  have  been  hard  —  oh, 
so  hard  to  have  broken  it  off  if  you  had  gone  on  car- 
ing." 

She  started.  Suddenly  she  was  the  Joan  of  old. 
"  Broken  it  off?  "  she  cried  blankly.  "  I  don't  under 
stand." 

"  I  will  not  ask  why  you  have  ceased  caring,"  he  went 
on  rapidly.  "  That  is  your  own  affair.  I  am  glad  that 
you  are  spared  the  pain  of  caring  for  someone — < 
in  that  way  —  who  isn't  worthy.  You  have  found  some 
one  who  deserves  — " 

"  Eric,  I  — "  she  began  tremulously,  then  caught  her 
self  up  with  an  effort.  "  Let  me  turn  back  with  you, 
please  do,"  she  substituted  in  low,  eager  tones.  "  I 
must  see  you  alone,  I  must  talk  with  you,  Eric.  There 
is  so  much  I  have  to  say  that  can't  be  said  out  here 
in—" 

"  Joan !  "  he  cried.     "  You  don't  mean  that  you  — " 

"I  —  I  haven't  changed,"  she  murmured.  "  There 
isn't  anyone  else  —  there  couldn't  be." 

"  And  Sallonsby  ?  "  he  said,  the  blood  rioting  in  his 
veins. 

"  You  have  never  been  out  of  my  thoughts  —  not  for 
a  moment,  day  or  night.  Oh,  we  cannot  talk  here !  "  ( 

He  forgot  his  troubles  in  the  great  joy  that  swept 
over  him,  in  the  discovery  that  she  was  true  after  all. 
The  tender  word  "  sweetheart "  burst  from  his  lips.  A 
mist  swam  before  his  eyes.  But,  almost  with  his  breath 
of  joy  came  the  chill  that  blighted  it. 

He  would  have  to  hurt  her,,  after  all.  His  face  grew 
bleak  and  haggard,  his  lip  trembled.  She  misconstrued 
the  emotion  that  was  depicted  there. 

"  When  I  heard  that  you  were  here,  I  insisted  on 
coming  home,"  she  went  on  breathlessly.  "  Father  tele- 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      371 

graphed  to  me  last  week.  I  had  told  him  that  the  yacht 
was  to  extend  the  cruise  several  weeks  longer.1' 

"  But  you  knew  I  was  coming  on  the  eighth,"  he 
said.  "  You  had  my  letters." 

"  They  were  forwarded  to  me.  I  got  them  at  Ha 
vana.  And,  Eric,"  she  continued,  flushed  and  ill-at- 
ease,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  hate  me  for  my  treat 
ment  of  Mary.  I  misjudged  her.  It  was  because  I 
was  jealous.  She  preferred  to  be  with  John  Payson 
and  those  women  friends  of  his.  I  Couldn't  help  resent 
ing  it." 

"  Payson  is  a  gentleman.  I've  found  that  out  for 
myself,"  said  Eric,  indirectly  defending  Mary. 

"  It  was  all  so  very  childish  of  me,"  she  confessed. 
"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

They  were  now  walking  slowly,  side  by  side,  toward 
her  home.  Obviously,  Mary  was  no  longer  paramount 
to  her  intentions. 

He  halted  her  abruptly. 

"  It's  no  use,  Joan,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  can't  let  it  go 
on.  Something  has  happened.  You  will  know  what  it 
is  before  the  day  is  over.  I  haven't  the  courage  to  tell 
you  myself." 

Her  hand  was  on  his  arm. 

"  Nothing  can  matter,  Eric  —  nothing  in  the  world," 
she  said  glibly.  "  You  are  disappointed  in  me.  You 
have  a  grievance,  but  it  is  imaginary.  I  can  smooth 
those  lines  away  if  you  will  just  be  patient  with  me. 
You  are  peeved  and  unhappy,  you  poor  boy." 

"  It's  got  to  end,"  he  repeated  doggedly. 

She  stared.     Alarm  showed  in  her  eyes. 

"  There  isn't  anyone  else?  "  she  asked,  after  a  mo 
ment. 

"  No,  no !  "  he  cried  out  bitterly. 


372  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Then  why  — "  she  began  impetuously,  but  checked 
the  words  to  say  instead :  "  Eric,  dear,  won't  you  come 
home  with  me?  We  will  not  say  another  word  all  the 
way.  When  we  are  in  the  house  you  may  tell  me  every 
thing.  But  you  must  come  with  me." 

They  came  upon  Judge  Bright  in  the  yard.  He 
smiled  genially  as  they  drew  near,  failing  to  note  the 
serious  look  in  their  faces  or  the  dejected  droop  of 
Eric's  head. 

The  young  man  had  been  thinking  hard  during  those 
blocks  of  self-imposed  silence.  He  owed  the  truth  to 
Joan.  It  was  wrong  in  him  to  even  think  of  leaving 
her  in  the  dark,  unprepared  for  the  shock  that  was  to 
come  later  in  the  day.  She  should  have  it  first  from 
his  lips. 

"  So  he  wasn't  offended  by  the  way  you  ran  off  and 
left  him  yesterday  — "  began  the  Judge.  His  daugh 
ter's  face  became  very  pink,  she  caught  her  breath  in 
dismay. 

Eric  smiled  wearily.  So  there  had  been  compunc 
tions  !  She  had  talked  it  over  with  her  father.  There 
was  something  in  that  to  be  treasured. 

The  Judge  said  ahem !  thrice  in  rapid  succession,  and 
fell  away  before  the  daggers  in  Joan's  eyes.  With  a 
very  perfunctory  remark  about  the  splendour  of  the  day, 
he  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass,  grimly  certain  of  a  bad 
half  hour  when  she  had  him  alone. 

Her  cheeks  were  still  pink  when  she  preceded  Eric 
into  the  library.  Turning  abruptly,  she  placed  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"  Eric,  I  want  you  to  hold  me  in  your  arms  as  you  — " 

He  crushed  her  to  his  breast.  For  a  long  time  they 
stood  so,  their  hot  young  lips  meeting  in  long,  devour 
ing  kisses. 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      373 

At  last  he  released  her,  and  drew  back  with  a  groan 
of  despair.  She  was  smiling  radiantly  up  into  his  eyes. 

"  It  isn't  so  terrible  after  all,  is  it?  "  she  cried  breath 
lessly.  Then  she  noticed  his  expression.  "  Was  it  so 
terrible  as  all  that?  "  she  exclaimed,  pouting. 

She  was  pulling  off  her  gloves,  all  the  while  watch 
ing  him  as  he  stood  grim  and  silent  against  the  huge 
library  table,  as  if  in  need  of  support.  Then  off  came 
her  trim  jacket.  He  did  not  offer  to  assist  her.  She 
was  puzzled. 

"  Don't  remove  your  hat,  Joan,"  he  said,  holding  up 
his  hand.  "  Stand  there,  just  as  you  are,  while  I  tell  you 
why  it  cannot  go  on.  I  love  you  —  I  worship  you.  I 
don't  want  you  ever  to  forget  that,  dearest." 

Again  he  spared  not  the  details.  The  whole  story 
poured  from  his  lips  witE  a  rush  that  left  her  power 
less  to  interrupt.  Her  eyes  never  left  his  set,  unflinch 
ing  face.  A  sort  of  stupefaction  possessed  her.  He 
saw  the  various  changes  of  expression  that  followed  the 
dawn  of  comprehension:  the  widening  of  her  eyes  in 
horror,  the  narrowing  in  pain,  the  flashes  of  excitement 
and  sympathy,  the  dying  of  all  that  had  been  joyous. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Joan,"  he  said  at  the  end,  after  waiting 
a  moment  for  her  to  speak.  "  You  understand.  I  had 
to  tell  you,  just  as  I  told  the  others." 

He  expected  her  to  turn  away  from  him  with  a  shud 
der  of  revulsion, —  he  dreaded  it.  But  she  did  not  turn 
away.  She  stood  still,  her  hands  gripping  the  chair 
which  supported  her,  her  big  eyes  looking  into  the  very 
soul  of  him. 

"  I'll  go  now,"  he  muttered,  suddenly  weak  and 
trembling. 

"  Wait !  "  she  said,  almost  mechanically.  "  Where  are 
you  going?  " 


374  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  To  the  sheriff,"  he  announced.  "  Will  you  tell 
your  father?  He  will  understand  why  I  can't  go  on 
with  the  house.  He  need  never  know  what  we  have 
been  to  each  other.  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  he  should 
not  know.  You  — " 

With  a  sharp,  inarticulate  cry  she  threw  herself  on  his 
breast;  she  pressed  his  cheeks  with  her  tense  little  hands' 
and  shook  him  desperately,  fiercely.     Quick,  hysterical 
sentences  rushed  from  her  lips. 

"  You  are  not  a  murderer.  You  were  not  to  blame. 
Do  you  think  I  will  let  you  go  away  feeling  as  you  do  ? 
Do  you  think  all  this  can  change  me  in  the  least?  Ex 
cept  to  make  me  love  you  more  than  ever  —  a  thousand 
fold  more.  Eric,  Eric,  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  mean 
it, —  every  word  of  it.  I  will  not  let  you  go." 


An  hour  later,  Eric  walked  down  Blagden  Avenue, 
accompanied  by  Judge  Oswald  Bright.  The  older  man 
had  his  arm  linked  with  that  of  his  companion.  From 
the  porch  of  the  house  they  had  just  left,  Joan  waved 
to  them  as  they  turned  to  look  back  from  the  corner 
below  where  the  hedges  grew  high  and  wall-like. 

"  If  I  should  happen  to  wake  up  right  now,"  said 
Eric,  a  trifle  unsteadily,  "  I'm  afraid  the  disappointment 
would  kill  me.  Of  course,  it's  only  a  dream." 

The  Judge  smiled.  "  You've  just  come  out  of  a 
dream, —  and  a  very  bad  one  at  that.  A  nightmare 
six  years  long !  Good  heaven,  what  an  age !  I  shudder 
to  think  of  what  it  has  been  to  poor  old  Horace  and 
Mrs.  Blagden." 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  office  of  a  lawyer  in 
Bank  Street,  pursuant  to  a  plan  of  action  advanced  by 
Joan's  father  after  he  had  recovered  sufficiently  from 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      375 

the  effect  of  two  shocks, —  for  it  is  always  a  shock  to  a 
father,  even  though  he  may  have  suspected  his  daugh 
ter's  secret  all  along.  He  agreed  with  Eric  that  it  was 
best  for  him  to  put  himself  in  the  hands  of  the  law  with 
out  delay,  and  to  go  through  the  form  of  being  legally 
!  relieved  of  the  charge  of  manslaughter. 

"  But  I  —  I  can't  ask  Joan  to  be  my  wife,  Judge 
Bright,  even  though  I  am  discharged — "  Eric  had 
started  to  say  back  there  in  the  house,  only  to  be 
stopped  by  the  girl. 

"  You've  already  asked  me,"  she  had  said,  "  and  I 
,will  not  release  you." 

Whereupon  Judge  Bright  had  gravely  said,  laying 
his  hands  on  the  young  man's  shoulders: 

"  We  have  only  the  law  to  consider,  Eric,  If  the 
law  puts  no  barrier  between  you  and  Joan,  I  shall  not 
do  so.  You  understand?  " 

"  You  mean,  if  the  law  says  I  am  innocent?  " 

"  That's  it,  my  lad." 

"  I  understand,  Judge  Bright." 

They  had  considered  the  designs  of  Horace  Blagden, 
who,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  had  carefully 
avoided  Eric  since  that  harrowing  scene  in  the  library. 
In  order  to  anticipate  any  inimical  move  on  the  part  of 
Chetwynd's  father,  Judge  Bright  volunteered  to  go  at 
once  to  the  house  on  the  hill  for  the  purpose  of  arguing 
the  case  before  the  real  judge,  the  real  prosecutor.  He 
tried  to  share  with  Eric  the  belief  that  Mr.  Blagden 
would  refuse  to  prosecute.  But  he  was  not  yet  able  to 
view  Horace  Blagden  in  the  aspect  of  humility  that 
Eric  described ;  he  had  known  the  great  man  of  Corinth 
all  his  life.  He  was  not  so  sure  that  he  could  change 
his  spots. 


376  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  neither  Mr.  Blagden  nor  his  wife 
left  the  room  during  the  remainder  of  that  awful  Sab 
bath,  nor  did  they  appear  for  breakfast  the  next  morn 
ing.  Eric  and  Mary  had  sat  up  half  the  night,  waiting 
in  suspense  and  dread  for  the  library  door  to  open  to 
admit  the  gaunt  figure  of  their  uncle.  As  friend  or 
foe  it  mattered  little  toward  the  end  of  their  vigil,  so 
eager  were  they  to  have  the  ordeal  over  with.  They 
could  hear  the  tread  of  footsteps  overhead,  and  the  oc 
casional  murmur  of  voices  through  the  bedroom  door. 
At  midnight  the  light  in  the  room  was  extinguished 
and  the  two  who  waited  stole  off  to  bed,  the  unknown, 
verdict  hanging  over  them. 

They  slept  not.  Long  after  the  clock  struck  three, 
—  not  the  old  clock  in  the  hall,  but  the  new  one  in  the 
Court-house  dome, —  they  heard  a  door  open  stealthily 
and  then  the  soft  shuffle  of  feet  in  the  hallway.  A 
board  in  the  floor  creaked  near  Eric's  door.  He  did 
not  move,  but  the  cold  perspiration  crept  out  all  over 
his  body. 

Someone  stood  outside  his  door,  listening.  Sharp 
ears  might  have  heard  the  beating  of  the  heart  that 
drummed  in  Eric's  breast.  Then  the  ghostly  creaking 
of  the  board  again,  and  the  shuffling  of  those  stealthy 
feet.  A  distant  door  whined  softly  and  a  lock  clicked. 
Then  the  house  was  still  once  more. 

Eric  sprang  out  of  bed  and  opened  his  door.  There 
was  no  light  in  the  transom  down  the  hall. 

He  and  Mary  breakfasted  together.  Martha,  more 
mystified  than  she  had  ever  been  in  all  her  life,  informed 
them  that  the  Master  and  Mrs.  Blagden  would  have 
their  coffee  upstairs. 

Eric  had  hurried  off  immediately  after  that  dismal 
meal.  He  was  barely  out  of  sight  beyond  the  hedge  at 


«  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      377 

the  bottom  of  the  yard,  when  Horace  came  down  the 
stairs,  meeting  Mary  in  the  hall. 

"  Where  has  Eric  gone  ?  "  he  demanded,  visibly  agi 
tated.  His  manner  was  so  strange  that  the  girl  invol 
untarily  drew  back  against  the  stair-rail. 

"  He  —  he  has  — "  she  stammered. 

"  Speak !  Where  has  he  gone  ?  "  interrupted  her 
uncle  sharply. 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  —  the  Court-house,  Uncle  Hor 
ace,  to  give  himself  — " 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  complete  the  sentence,  but 
turned  and  ascended  the  stairs  with  unusual  swiftness. 
A  few  minutes  later  he  came  down,  attired  for  the  street. 
As  he  passed  her  in  the  hall,  he  said : 

"  Your  aunt  would  like  you  to  come  up  to  her  for  a 
little  while,  Mary.  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  for  a  short 
time." 

He  went  down  the  walk  swiftly,  his  tall  figure  as 
straight  as  a  ramrod,  his  cane  pegging  resolutely  on  the 
hard  gravel  path.  He  left  the  gate  open,  an  absolutely 
unique  oversight  on  his  part.  Such  a  thing  had  not 
happened  in  the  memory  of  man.  Even  Chetwynd  had 
been  punctilious  about  closing  the  high  iron  gate  in 
the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard.  But  to-day  Horace 
himself  left  it  wide  open  as  he  hurried  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  city  centre. 

Mrs.  Blagden  did  not  keep  Mary  long  in  the  room 
upstairs.  To  the  girl's  surprise,  the  shades  were  up 
as  high  as  they  would  go,  the  lace  curtains  and  the 
chintz  over-hangings  were  drawn  back  and  caught  in 
loops  over  the  long  unused  brass  hooks  at  the  sides  of 
the  windows.  The  sun  streamed  into  the  room.  Her 
aunt  sat  by  a  window,  looking  into  the  yard.  As  Mary 
entered,  she  turned  toward  her,  holding  out  her  hand. 


S78  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  Come  here,  Mary,"  she  said,  her  voice  clear  and 
steady,  and  full  of  a  rare  sweetness.  The  girl  crossed 
quickly.  "  Do  you  think  you  can  learn  to  love  me  ? 
Can  you  forget  the  unkindness  — " 

Mary  dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  chair  and  kissed 
the  delicate  hand  that  had  been  lifted  against  her  up  to 
this  day. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  try  to  do  all  this  at  once,"  said 
Mrs.  Blagden,  laying  the  other  hand  on  the  dark  head 
at  her  knee.  "  Impulsiveness  moves  you  now.  You 
are  sorry  for  me.  You  pity  me.  It  will  take  time  to 
bring  about  all  that  I  want,  all  that  I  crave.  See !  The 
sun  is  bright.  The  world  is  brighter  to-day  than  it 
has  been  for  years.  Look  at  me,  Mary.  Am  I  not 
different?  Am  I  not  changed?" 

The  girl  looked  up  and  wondered.  There  was  colour 
in  her  aunt's  face,  there  was  life  in  her  eyes. 

"I  —  I  thought  you  would  be  utterly  crushed,  Aunt 
Rena,"  she  murmured. 

"  Crushed?  Ah,  I  am  not  happy.  I  can  never  be 
happy,  my  child.  But  my  mind  is  at  rest.  My  boy  is 
not  wandering.  He  is  in  heaven.  Yes,  in  heaven,  for 
his  mother's  prayers  uttered  all  through  the  days  of  his 
life  cannot  have  been  without  avail  in  the  hour  that  he 
stood  before  his  Maker,  so  suddenly  called,  so  miserably 
unprepared.  God  must  have  kept  account  of  all  my 
prayers.  Chetwynd  did  not  go  before  Him  unheralded, 
unrepresented.  A  mother's  love  had  spoken  for  him 
through  all  the  years, —  even  through  those  evil  years 
when  he  was  not  what  he  should  have  been.  And  God 
kept  a  record  of  my  prayers.  Chetwynd  is  with  God 
to-day.  Something  deep  in  my  soul  tells  me  this.  I 
know  it.  His  sins  were  paid  for  in  full  during  that 
half-second  of  mortal  agony  whilfe  he  was  falling  to  the 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "     379 

rocks.     Did  not  Eric  hear  his  single  cry  to  God?    That 
one  word  — '  God ! ' —  that  was  his  prayer,  and  his  sal 
vation.     In  the  eleventh  hour,  if  we  ask  we  shall  re 
ceive.     In  the  final  second  of  life,  God's  name  is  our 
refuge,  our  hope.     He  prayed  to  God  in  that  swift  de-  , 
scent,  in  the  half -second  of  life  left  to  him.     No,  Mary, 
he  is  not  out  there  in  the  Atlantic.     He  is  with  Christ  in ' 
—  Ah,  my  dear,  you  cannot  understand!     You  do  not 
see  it  as  I  see  it.     But  how  can  you  ?  " 

A  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  illuminated  her  eyes. 

"  Try  to  love  me,  dear.  That's  all  I  ask  now,"  she 
went  on.  "  I  am  not  asking  you  to  forgive  Chetwynd. 
You  have  nothing  to  cherish  in  the  memory  of  your 
cousin.  I  do  not  expect  that  of  you." 

"  He  hated  Eric  and  me,"  was  all  that  Mary  could 
say.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  committed  a  crime,  the 
instant  the  words  were  out. 

"That  word  'hate'!"  cried  Mrs.  Blagden,  with  a 
shiver.  "  How  sweet,  how  gentle,  how  tender  is  that 
other  word  —  love !  Come,  I  want  you  to  draw  up  a 
chair  beside  me.  We  will  watch  for  the  return  of  your 
uncle  and  Eric.  He  has  gone  out  to  find  Eric,  to 
bring  him  back  here  before  he  can  do  anything 
rash.  See !  I  shall  be  sitting  here  in  the  window  where 
he  can  see  me  as  he  comes  up  the  walk.  He  is  to  be  our 
boy  now," 

Mary  burst  into  tears.  The  promise  of  mercy  in  that 
brief  but  significant  sentence  was  more  than  she  could 
have  hoped  for.  Eric  was  safe!  The  Blagdens  were 
great,  after  all ! 

Mrs.  Blagden's  voice,  when  she  spoke  again  after 
Mary's  outburst  was  over,  was  strangely  dull  and  list 
less.  "  How  long  it  has  been.  It  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  sat  in  these  windows  for  centuries,  waiting,  watch- 


380  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

ing,  almost  dreading.  And  oh,  the  fear  of  Adam  Carr ! 
The  fear  of  a  bloodhound !  " 

"  Don't,  Aunt  Rena,  please  don't  think  about  it," 
came  in  choked  tones  from  Mary. 

Her  aunt  was  pensive  for  a  long  time,  her  far-away 
gaze  resting  on  the  rim  of  blue  sky  that  topped  the 
trees. 

"  I  hope  your  uncle  is  not  too  late,"  she  said,  a  sud 
den  weariness  in  her  manner. 

Mary  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  thought  that  had  been 
lying  dormant  in  her  mind  all  morning  revived  with 
startling  force. 

"  Eric  may  have  gone  first  to  Mrs.  Payson's  house," 
she  said  rapidly.  li  He  tried  to  find  John  Payson  last 
night.  It  was  to  see  about  arranging  a  bond  of  some 
sort.  Perhaps  he  is  there  now." 

"  John  Payson ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Blagden,  her  face 
stiffening.  "  Why  should  he  ask  anything  of  that 
man?" 

A  lump  rose  in  Mary's  throat.  She  saw  red  for  an 
instant. 

"  Because  he  needs  a  strong,  true  friend,  Aunt  Rena," 
she  said. 

"  I  should  think  he'd  had  enough  of  Adam  Carr," 
said  the  other,  with  a  world  of  meaning  in  her  manner. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mary  patiently. 
"  But  it  isn't  true, —  it  isn't  true,  Aunt  Rena." 

"  Your  uncle  says  — " 

"  I  know  what  he  thinks,  if  not  what  he  says.  Uncle 
Horace  is  wrong.  But  even  if  he  is  right,  why  should 
it  matter?  John  Payson  can't  help  who  and  what  he  is. 
The  same  God  who  made  all  of  us  made  him  also.  He 
is  what  God  made  him,  not  what  Uncle  Horace  and 
others  try  to  — " 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      381 

"  Hush,  Mary.  Do  not  say  anything  more.  I 
should  not  have  spoken  as  I  did.  It  was  the  old  rancour 
cropping  out.  Your  uncle,  good  man  that  he  is,  bears 
no  ill-will  toward  Jack  Payson  now.  He  said  as  much 
last  night  in  this  very  room.  Ah,  what  a  change  has 
come  over  Horace  Blagden !  " 

She  unconsciously  gave  expression  to  the  great  won 
der  that  had  been  growing  in  her  for  days. 

"  When  you  are  married  to  him,"  went  on  Mrs.  Blag- 
den,  "  we  shall  be  glad  to  receive  him  as  our  nephew, 
provided  he  can  accept  us  as  we  are,  not  as  we  were." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure,  Aunt  Rena, — "  began  Mary  joy 
ously. 

"  Do  not  speak  for  Jack  Payson,  my  dear,"  said 
the  older  woman  calmly.  "  Let  him  do  that  for  him 
self." 

It  was  then  that  Mary  proposed  that  she  set  out  for 
Mrs.  Payson's  home  at  once,  with  the  view  to  finding 
Eric.  It  was  still  early  and  he  was  doubtless  there  in 
consultation  with  Payson,  who  was  not  to  return  to  New 
York  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Go,  my  dear,"  said  her  aunt.  "  Lose  no  time.  It 
is  most  imperative." 


As  for  Eric,  we  know  that  he  did  not  go  to  the  Widow 
Payson's. 

With  Judge  Bright  he  entered  the  county  Court-house 
at  ten  o'clock.  They  had  gone  to  the  office  of  the  law 
yer  in  Bank  Street,  only  to  be  told  by  the  clerk  that  Mr. 
Gates  unexpectedly  had  been  called  to  the  sheriff's  office 
a  few  minutes  earlier.  He  did  not  know  the  nature  of 
the  business,  but  it  was  important,  as  his  superior  had 
departed  in  haste. 


382  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

As  they  walked  down  the  corridor  they  were  met  by 
the  editor  of  the  Courier,  who  came  up  from  the  other 
entrance,  quite  out  of  breath  and  visibly  excited. 

"  Hello,"  he  said.  Being  an  editor,  he  was  on  fa 
miliar  terms  with  everyone,  great  and  small.  A  Justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court  possessed  no  terrors  for  him. 
"  Morning,  Judge.  Well,  well,  Eric,  let  me  congratu 
late  you.  Great  piece  of  news.  All  in  type  by  this 
time,  too.  I — " 

"  Congratulate  ?  "  gasped  Eric. 

"  Type?  "  ejaculated  Judge  Bright. 

"  Sure.  Your  uncle  released  it  by  'phone  ten  min 
utes  ago,  and  told  me  to  get  over  here  as  quickly  as  I 
could.  Corinth  will  turn  over  in  its  grave  when  it  sees 
the  Courier  this  evening.  Great  guns !  Think  of  a 
library  building  bigger  than  the  new  paper  mill  and 
straw-board  works  combined!  Why,  it's — " 

Eric's  bitter  laugh  stopped  him. 

**  I  fancy,  Cooper,  you'll  have  another  bit  of  news  that 
will  surprise  you,"  said  Judge  Bright. 

"  Not  the  wedding  announcement !  "  gasped  Cooper, 
showing  how  the  wind  blew. 

"  That  comes  later  on,"  said  the  Judge. 

"  Well,  well,  I  —  I  do  congratulate  you,"  said  the 
editor,  sticking  out  his  hand  once  more.  But  Eric's 
eyes  were  on  the  door  of  the  sheriff's  office  and  he  did 
not  see  the  ink-stained  fingers. 

"  In  the  private  office,  Judge,"  said  the  lone  deputy 
in  the  front  office.  "  Waitin'  for  Eric  in  there.  H'are 
you,  Eric?  What's  up?  " 

Mr.  Cooper  was  following  the  pair  into  the  private 
office  when  the  deputy  called  out  to  him: 

"  Private,  Joe.     Can't  go  in  yet." 

"  I've  been  sent  for,"  retorted  Cooper,  the  editor. 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      383 

"  Set  down.  They'll  send  again,  I  guess,"  said  the 
deputy  succinctly. 

There  were  three  men  in  the  private  office,  all  stand 
ing.  Judge  Bright  closed  the  door.  Mr.  Gates,  the 
lawyer,  stood  beside  the  table,  confronting  the  sheriff 
and  the  state's  attorney.  The  latter  evidently  had  been 
reading  aloud  the  document  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 
The  sheriff,  a  fat  little  man  with  chin  whiskers,  was 
looking  over  the  other's  shoulder  as  the  newcomers  en 
tered.  He  immediately  turned  to  them,  betraying  con 
siderable  excitement. 

"  So  here  you  are,  Midthorne,"  he  greeted,  stepping 
forward.  "  Glad  to  see  you.  How  are  you  this  morn 
ing?  Monping,  Judge.  Well, — "  he  affected  a  pleas 
ant  grin, — "  I  guess  it  won't  take  long  to  fix  it  all  up. 
This  is  the  state's  attorney,  Mr.  Midthorne.  Reckon 
you  know  Mr.  Gates.  He  is  to  represent  you,  I  believe. 
Course,  I  suppose,  to  be  quite  regular,  I  should  put  you 
under  arrest,  Mr.  Midthorne.  But  what's  the  use  going 
over  all  that?  We  understand  each  other,  I  reckon, 
so—" 

"  But  I  do  not  understand,"  cried  Eric  in  astonish 
ment.  "  How  do  you  happen  to  know  what  I  am  here 
for  ?  No  one  knows  except  — " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Blagden's  upstairs  in  the  court-room  now, 
waiting  for  us,"  explained  the  sheriff.  "  Got  the  bond 
all  ready  to  be  signed  and  everything.  So,  don't  worry. 
Mr.  Collins  here  has  got  the  affydavit  drawn, —  on  infor 
mation  and  belief,  ain't  it  ?  —  and  as  long  as  you're  sat 
isfied  to  give  yourself  up,  it  won't  be  necessary  for  me 
to  have  a  warrant.  Course,  the  affydavit  will  have  to  be 
read,  and  all  that,  but  it  won't  take  long." 

"  My  uncle  has  been  here  ?  "  gasped  Eric,  recovering 
from  his  surprise. 


884  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Mr.  Gates  came  forward.  "  He  has  attended  to 
everything,  Mr.  Midthorne.  You  may  leave  it  all  in 
my  hands.  I  think  we  will  have  no  difficulty  in  securing 
a  speedy  trial.  You  —  but  we  will  discuss  the  matter 
later  in  my  office."  He  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction 
of  the  state's  attorney,  smiling  blandly.  "  You  see,  we 
can't  afford  to  play  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy." 

Completely  dazed,  Eric  followed  the  men  out  of  the 
office  and  up  the  broad  steps  to  the  court-room.  Mr. 
Cooper  took  it  upon  himself  to  walk  beside  the  young 
man. 

"  What's  up  ? "  he  whispered  eagerly.  "  What's 
going  on  ?  Put  a  fellow  next,  Eric.  The  —  old  geezer 
upstairs  isn't  thinking  of  a  divorce,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Good  heaven,  no ! "  exclaimed  Eric.  He  liked 
Joe  Cooper.  "  Wait  a  few  minutes.  I  can't  tell  you 
now." 

The  court-room  was  quite  empty,  except  for  the  pres 
ence  of  a  lone  figure  seated  inside  the  railing,  quite  close 
to  the  bench,  and  two  bailiffs  who  conversed  lazily  at 
one  of  the  windows  overlooking  Main  Street. 

Despite  its  deserted  appearance,  court  was  in  session. 
The  judge  leaned  forward  to  converse  in  subdued  tones 
with  the  man  below.  He  looked  up  as  the  group  came 
through  the  swinging  doors,  and  settled  back  in  his 
chair  to  compose  himself  for  that  typical  exposition  of 
judicial  indifference  that  never  fails  to  create  in  the 
mind  of  the  layman  doubt  as  to  whether  the  Court  is 
asleep  or  awake,  or  merely  thinking  of  something  en 
tirely  foreign  to  the  cause  before  him.  And  just  when 
you  think  he  is  sleeping  the  soundest,  he  starts  up  and 
says  something  so  pertinent  that  you  know  he  has  been 
listening  all  the  time.  Only  it  does  make  one  drowsy  to 
watch  the  half -recumbent  Court  on  a  w.arm  day  late  in 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      385 

the  April  term.  You  wonder  if  he,  too,  isn't  thinking 
of  meadow-larks. 

Eric,  a  trifle  dazed  and  bewildered,  stopped  just  inside 
the  rail,  while  the  others  went  forward, —  that  is  to  say, 
with  the  single  exception  of  the  sheriff,  who,  after  sev 
eral  leisurely  strides,  bethought  himself  of  his  prisoner 
and  halted  in  some  conflict  between  his  duty  as  a  cus 
todian  and  a  certain  inborn  tendency  to  avoid  anything 
that  might  give  offence  to  Mr.  Horace  Blagden.  He 
managed  to  console  himself  with  the  thought  that,  fig 
uratively,  he  had  haled  his  prisoner  into  court.  Still, 
he  halted  and  motioned  for  Eric  to  draw  nearer  and  sit 
down. 

The  prisoner  —  for  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  strict 
sense  of  the  word  —  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  there 
staring  at  the  tall,  thin  figure  of  his  uncle,  who  had 
risen  and  was  facing  him.  The  domineering  look  had 
come  back  into  the  face  of  Horace  Blagden.  It  was 
the  look  of  the  man  who  takes  things  in  his  own  hands 
and  has  his  own  way,  no  matter  what  the  issue.  He 
had  quite  overlooked  the  fact  that  this  was  Eric's  affair, 
to  be  handled  as  he  saw  fit,  and  had  taken  the  initiative 
without  consulting  his  nephew's  wishes, —  a  very  char 
acteristic  Blagden  trait  that  had  not  been  completely 
overcome,  it  would  appear. 

Suddenly  a  smile  crept  into  his  face,  an  appealing, 
wistful  smile  that  was  more  of  an  apology  than  all  the 
words  he  could  have  uttered.  A  moment  before  he 
would  have  commanded  Eric  to  approach;  now  he  hesi 
tatingly  motioned  with  his  hand. 

Together  they  stood  before  the  Court  while  Mr.  Col 
lins  read  the  affidavit.  The  two  bailiffs,  aroused  from 
their  lethargy,  drew  near,  and  the  deputy  clerk  emerged 
from  the  inner  room  in  response  to  a  summons  from 


'386  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

the  bench.  Mr.  Blagden  had  shaken  hands  with  his 
nephew,  and  had  stroked  his  shoulder  kindly. 

The  puzzled  editor,  taking  note  of  this,  blinked  his 

eyes  dizzily.     It  was  most  extraordinary!     A  minute 

later  he  was  drinking  in  the  most  stupendous  news  story 

.  that  ever  had  come  to  him  in  all  his  years  of  experience : 

the  solution  of  the  great  Blagden  mystery. 

"  Say  '  not  guilty,'  "  whispered  Mr.  Blagden  in  Eric's 
ear. 

"  Not  guilty,"  said  Eric,  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
prosecutor's  face  to  stare  blankly  at  his  uncle. 

He  heard  the  Court  speaking.  He  was  being  bound 
over  in  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars  to  the  next  term, 
unless  the  case  could  be  moved  forward  by  mutual  con 
sent  and  in  the  convenience  of  the  Court. 

"  Mr.  Oakes  and  Mr.  Elston  will  sign  the  bond,  Mr. 
Sheriff,"  said  Horace.  "  I  daresay  they  are  waiting  in 
your  office  now.  Shall  we  go  down?  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  either  of  these  gentlemen,"  pro 
tested  Eric.  "  Besides,  I  mean  to  have  John  Payson 
attend  to  the  bond  for  — " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Blagden,  "  it  is  all  attended  to. 
There  can't  be  any  hitch.  I've  telephoned  to  Mr.  Oakes 
and  Mr.  Elston,  asking  them  to  come  here  at  once.  I 
shall  tell  them  what  it  is  all  about  when  I  see  them. 
They  will  be  very  happy  to  go  on  the  bond,  I  am  sure. 
Some  sort  of  ridiculous  law  prohibits  my  signing  the 
bond,  my  boy,  or  at  least,  so  your  attorney  informs 
me." 

In  the  corridor,  Eric  came  out  of  the  daze  that  had 
held  him  in  a  sort  of  stupor  during  all  of  the  proceed 
ings.  He  drew  his  uncle  aside. 

"  Uncle  Horace,"  he  said  simply,  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  you.  I  don't  know  how  to  express  my- 


"  ON  INFORMATION  AND  BELIEF  "      387 

self.     Will  you  give  me  time  to  think  it  all  out  and  let 
me  tell  you  later  how  much  I  — " 

"  Eric,"  interrupted  the  older  man,  "  I  am  doing  all 
this  to  please  your  aunt  and  myself.  We  are  very  self 
ish  people.  We  are  covetous.  We  have  discovered  that 
there  is  something  that  we  have  always  wanted  and  never 
really  had.  We  want  to  be  loved." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET 

IN  the  meantime,  Mary  Midthorne  had  found  Jack  Pay- 
son.  She  descended  from  exclusive  Upper  Corinth  into 
the  prim  but  humble  district  known  as  the  Fourth  Ward, 
•where  lived  the  plain  people;  here  no  man  was  down 
right  poor,  yet  none  was  rich,  save  in  honour  and  con 
tentment.  You  had  but  to  look  at  the  long  rows  of  cot 
tages  to  know  that  peace  reigned  external  if  not  eternal. 
There  were  no  outward  signs  of  envy  or  jealousy,  yet 
how  well  the  woman  was  despised  whose  husband  pros 
pered  so  steadily  that  he  was  looking  at  property  'way 
up  town  with  a  view  to  building  a  house  that  was  "  fit 
to  live  in."  Even  the  erection  of  a  summer  kitchen  or 
the  expansion  of  the  front  stoop  into  a  verandah  was 
proof  of  an  affluency  that  came  in  for  general  resent 
ment  and  all  sorts  of  talk  about  "  pride  going  before  a 
fall." 

But  the  people  of  Corinth  never  fell  in  just  that  way. 
Their  thrift  was  their  pride.  If  they  fell  it  was  not 
because  pride  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  but  because 
it  was  the  height  of  extravagance  to  carry  fire  insur 
ance.  You  might  burn  them  out,  but  in  no  other  way 
could  you  humble  them  —  especially  those  who  lived  in 
the  Fourth  Ward. 

The  Widow  Payson  lived  in  one  of  the  clean  little 
streets  that  lay  within  easy  walking  distance  of  every 
other  place  in  Corinth.  If  you  had  a  springy,  pro 
jecting  stride,  you  could  easily  make  the  docks  in  five 

minutes,  or  you  could  circle  the  Court-house  square  and 

388 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      389 

ido  a  block  or  two  extra  on  Main  Street  in  six  or  seven. 
Besides,  it  wasn't  far  to  Upper  Corinth,  and  was  farther 
removed  from  the  detested  Todville.  There  was  really 
something  in  that.  By  an  odd  perfection  of  street 
nomenclature,  it  was  called  Handy  Street  in  commemora 
tion  of  a  citizen  who  went  to  war  as  a  private  and  came 
out  a  corporal.  A  great  favourite  with  Washington, 
the  story  goes,  and  intensely  disliked  by  King  George 
the  Third. 

At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Pay  son  lived  in  Handy  Street. 
Hers  was  a  neat  little  cottage  with  vines  growing  all 
over  it,  and  a  garden  at  the  back  with  a  white-washed 
fence  around  it,  just  as  you  might  have  expected. 
There  was  a  great  knocker  on  the  vine-surrounded 
door  inside  the  porch,  and  a  name  plate,  and  a  peep 
hole  with  a  sliding  shutter.  As  quaint  a  place  as 
you  would  see  in  a  day's  journey  through  old  New 
England. 

Mary,  flushed  and  suddenly  shy,  rattled  the  knocker 
after  a  rather  timid  fashion.  The  door  was  opened  at 
once,  to  her  great  surprise.  She  had  been  watching  the 
closed  shutter  in  the  ancient  peep-hole  as  if  fascinated, 
confidently  expecting  to  see  it  slide  back  to  reveal  a 
grewsome,  questioning  eye. 

John  Payson  himself  opened  the  door.  A  certain 
haggard,  tired  expression  left  his  face  as  if  by  magic. 
If  she  had  been  less  absorbed  in  her  own  feelings,  she 
would  have  noticed  something  more  than  surprise  in  the 
eyes  of  her  lover. 

"  Why,  Mary ! "  he  exclaimed,  throwing  the  door 
wide  open.  "  What  has  happened  ?  Has  anything 
gone  wrong  with  Eric?  " 

"Hasn't  he  been  here?  You  have  not  seen  him?'* 
she  inquired  anxiously. 


390  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  had  not  asked  her  to  enter,  but  stood  before  her, 
blocking  the  doorway. 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,"  he  said,  a  queer  nervousness 
in  his  manner.  "  What  has  happened?  Tell  me.  Can 
I  be  of  any  service  to  him  ?  " 

"  May  I  not  come  in,  Jack  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly 
struck  by  the  odd  look  in  his  eyes.  A  swift  premonition 
of  disaster  came  over  her.  He  was  so  palpably  ill-at- 
ease  and  confused ;  he  was  keeping  something  back  from 
her.  "  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  queerly  ?  Oh,  Jack, 
he  —  he  hasn't  tried  to  — "  She  was  terrified.  The 
ugly  suspicion  could  not  be  put  into  words. 

He  made  haste  to  reassure  her.  "  I  have  not  seen 
him.  My  mother  says  he  was  here  last  night,  when  I 
was  away."  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  went 
on,  his  face  ghastly  white.  "  I  would  ask  you  to  come 
in,  Mary,  but  something  terrible  has  happened  here. 
You  would  better  go  on  to  Eric  and  leave  me  to  look 
after—" 

"  Not  your  mother,  Jack  ?  "  she  cried,  staring. 

His  eyes  fell.  For  a  moment  his  lips  worked  pain 
fully,  then  became  rigid.  When  he  looked  up  again, 
the  utmost  desolation  lay  in  his  eyes. 

"  No,  Mary.     My  father,"  he  said  levelly. 

She  peered  intently  into  his  eyes.  Her  brain  was  ab 
solutely  clear. 

"  You  —  you  mean  — "  Every  vestige  of  colour  had 
fled  from  her  face. 

He  did  not  permit  his  gaze  to  waver,  nor  his  face  to> 
change  expression.  His  voice  fell  to  a  dull  monotone. 

"  My  father  did  not  go  down  with  the  Lcmlgan.  He 
lies  in  there  on  my  bed,  stricken,  helpless,  perhaps  dy 
ing.  That  is  all,  Mary.  Why  ask  me  to  say  more?  " 

She  leaned  against  the  trellis,  trembling  in  every  limb. 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      391 

"  It  is  true,  then,"  she  whispered  dully. 

"  He  is  in  there,"  said  he,  in  dogged  acquiescence. 

"  Adam  Carr?  " 

"My  father." 

They  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes,  the  misery  deepening  in  their  faces.  He 
turned  away  at  last. 

"  You'd  better  go  away  now,  Mary,"  he  said  gently. 
"  When  you  see  Eric,  tell  him  that  he  won't  have  to  look 
me  up.  It  is  all  over.  He  was  right.  I  am  not 
worthy.  But  good  heaven,  Mary,  I  did  not  know, —  I 
did  not  know!  I  thought  I  was  as  good  as  any  man 
living,  and  had  the  right  to  love  as  other  men  love.  But, 
go,  for  God's  sake  go!  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you 
hear—" 

She  advanced,  her  trembling  hands  pressed  to  her 
breast,  her  eyes  dark  with  pain  and  understanding. 

"  Let  me  come  in,"  she  murmured  faintly.  "  There 
is  something  that  I  must  say  to  you.  I  came  here  to  ask 
you  to  help  Eric,  to  be  his  friend.  He  is  in  great  trou 
ble.  Let  me—" 

He  stood  aside,  making  way  for  her  to  pass.  The 
despair  in  his  face  gave  way  to  a  look  of  genuine  con 
cern  and  anxiety. 

"In  trouble?  What  can  I  do  for  him?  Let  me  set 
about  it  at  once.  Perhaps  I  can  serve  him  before  he 
learns  the  full  truth  concerning  me.  After  he  knows, 
it  will  be  too  late.  He  would  not  accept  my  friend 
ship.  Ask  me  to  die  for  you, —  or  for  Eric,  if  that  will 
help  you, —  and  I  will  do  it  gladly.  Yes,  joyfully." 

She  walked  into  the  parlour.  Through  her  whirling 
brain  ran  the  lines  of  that  rare  old  bit  of  rhyme :  "  Will 
you  walk  into  my  parlour,  said  the  spider  to  the  fly." 
Somehow,  she  felt  that  entanglement  awaited  her  in  the 


S92  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

dim,  shadowy  room, —  something  she  would  never  be 
able  to  escape  from.  She  had  never  been  inside  the 
Widow  Payson's  home  before.  Always,  in  her  mind's 
eye,  she  had  pictured  it  as  plain,  poor  and  stiffly  puritan 
ical.  Perhaps  it  had  been  all  this  another  day,  but  now 
there  were  signs  of  coziness,  even  luxury  in  a  small 
way.  Her  son  had  not  prospered  without  the  thought 
of  her  back  of  all  his  gains.  There  were  handsome  rugs 
on  the  floor;  quaint  old  pieces  of  furniture,  attractive 
pictures,  cheerful  wall-paper,  rich  window  hangings  and 
portieres.  A  tall  walnut  bookcase  stood  over  against 
the  wall,  filled  with  volumes.  The  girl  was  dimly  con 
scious  of  a  feeling  of  relief.  If  the  room  had  looked 
like  other  parlours  she  had  seen  in  Corinth,  the  sense 
of  desolation  would  have  been  complete ;  she  would  have 
lost  heart. 

He  closed  the  door  gently,  even  carefully.  She 
turned  to  look  at  him.  He  was  peering  fixedly  at  the 
drawn  curtains  of  the  door  that  opened  into  the  room 
beyond:  the  attitude  of  one  listening.  The  odour  of  a 
familiar  and  potent  drug  was  faintly  distinguishable. 
The  girl  experienced  a  queer  feeling  of  dizziness,  of 
nausea. 

"  Where  is  your  mother?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  for  her,  but  she  remained  stand 
ing. 

"  In  there, —  with  him,"  he  replied,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  brow.  "  The  doctor  is  there,  too.  But,  tell 
me,  Mary,  what  is  up  with  Eric?  What  is  it  you  want 
me  to  do  ?  " 

He  made  no  effort  to  embrace  her,  not  even  the  at 
tempt  to  take  her  hand  in  his.  The  omission  was  sig 
nificant. 

She  was  staring  at  him,  a  swiftly  passing  expression 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      393 

of  doubt  and  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "  Hasn't  Mr.  Ad  — 
your  —  I  mean,  hasn't  Mr.  Carr  told  you  anything?  " 
she  asked.  She  fell  into  his  way  of  speaking  in  hushed 
tones.  He  shook  his  head,  and  waited  for  her  to  go  on. 
Her  gaze  involuntarily  went  to  the  curtained  door.  "  He 
can  keep  a  secret,"  she  murmured. 

**  I  am  afraid  he  is  beyond  the  telling  of  secrets,"  was 
his  grim  conclusion. 

She  started.  "He  is  —  he  isn't  dead?"  she  whis 
pered,  bleak  awe  in  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she  realised 
what  Adam  Carr's  death  would  mean  to  Eric.  Her 
heart  gave  a  bound  of  hope,  of  exultation.  The  only 
witness !  **  Why  —  why,  if  he  were  only  dead  — "  she 
began,  a  positive  thrill  in  the  voice,  only  to  find  the 
words  dying  on  her  lips.  She  quailed  before  the  look 
in  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  what  a  brutal  thing  to  say !  "  she 
cried,  putting  her  hands  to  her  cheeks  and  staring  at 
him  with  shamed  eyes.  "  How  selfish  I  am !  What  a 
little  beast!" 

He  looked  bewildered.  "  I  don't  understand  all  this," 
he  said.  "  He  isn't  dead,  poor  Mr.  Adam,"  he  went  on, 
unconscious  of  the  appellation.  "  That's  the  worst  of 
it.  Better  off  a  thousand  fold  than  the  way  he  is.  He 
can  keep  a  secret,  you  say.  Ah,  he  can  that!  I  know 
how  well  he  can  keep  a  secret.  He  has  never  betrayed 
my  secret.  Not  a  word  from  him  —  not  a  single  word. 
He  will  die  without  breathing  it  to  a  soul.  Ten  thou 
sand  devils  could  not  choke  or  beat  it  out  of  him.  He 
would  die  ten  thousand  deaths  in  agony  rather  than  say 
the  thing  that  would  hurt  me.  And  now  he  is  lying  in 
there,  voiceless  and  —  But  what  is  this  I'm  saying?  I 
am  terrifying  you,  my  poor  little  sweetheart.  Ranting 
like  a  mad-man !  Forgive  me." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Jack,"  she  whispered,  directing  a  look 


894  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

of  abject  terror  at  the  motionless  curtains,  as  if  ex 
pecting  them  to  part  and  reveal  a  thing  of  horror.  "  I 
can't  stay  here.  What  is  it?  What  has  happened? 
For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me  at  once.  I  shall  scream  if  — " 

She  was  edging  farther  away  from  him. 

"  Come  outside,"  he  said  quickly.  "  This  is  no  place 
for  you,  dear." 

He  was  moving  toward  the  door,  but  she  stopped  him 
with  a  word. 

"Wait!" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  withdrew  her  gaze 
from  the  curtains  and  turned  to  look  at  him.  "  I  will 
go  away,  Jack  dear,  for  a  little  while.  Forgive  me 
for  disturbing  you.  Of  course,  I  could  not  have  known. 
You  are  needed  here.  You  cannot  leave.  I  will  go 
away.  I  — " 

"  I  can't  let  you  go  until  I  know  what  has  happened," 
he  urged.  "  Don't  be  afraid.  Tell  me.  I  can  be  of 
no  service  to  —  to  him,"  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  toward 
the  inner  room.  "  He  doesn't  need  me.  My  mother, 

—  she  wants  me  to  be  near  at  hand  in  case  —  in  cas° 
of  —  well,  you  know  what  I  mean.     He's   very   low. 
He  may  die  —  like  this,"  and  he  snapped  his  fingers 
sharply  in  illustration.     "  It's  as  bad  as  that.     Stay ! 
We  can  go  into  her  sitting-room.     In  here,  Mary.     It 
used  to  be  my  den  when  I  lived  at  home.     We  can  talk 
\n  — "     He  stopped,  struck  by  her  appearance. 

"  Listen,"  she  whispered.     "Do  you  hear?     Is  that 

—  is  that  his  breathing  ?     Oh,  how  horrible !  " 

"  Come,"  he  said  resolutely,  taking  her  by  the  arm. 
She  suffered  herself  to  be  led  into  the  little  room  off  the 
parlour.  He  took  her  to  the  sofa  by  the  window  and 
sat  down  beside  her,  suddenly  clasping  her  cold  little 
hand  in  his. 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      395 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  he  said,  his  voice  breaking. 
"  What  can  I  do  —  for  you?  " 

She  cringed.  "  How  can  I  ask  anything  of  you  when 
^  moment  ago  I  was  rejoicing  in  the  hope  that  Adam 
—  that  your  —  Oh,  Jack,  I  can't  say  it !  I  can't  think 
of  him  as  your  father.  Why  —  why  — "  her  eyes  were 
wide  with  comprehension  — "  it  means  that  you  are  — 
are—" 

"  Don't  say  it,  dear,"  he  broke  in.  "  Yes,  I  am  what 
you  think,  but  don't  say  it."  He  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  free  hand,  the  other  crushing  her  fingers  in  a  grip 
of  despair. 

She  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips.  His  fingers  re 
laxed.  He  uncovered  his  eyes  to  stare  at  her  in  won 
der. 

"  I  love  you,  just  the  same,"  she  declared. 

He  started  up.  "  Good  God !  No  !  You  must  never 
say  that  again  —  never !  " 

"  But  I  do !  "  she  insisted.  "  Always,  Jack, —  al 
ways  ! " 

He  sank  back,  the  fierce  light  in  his  eyes  giving  way 
to  one  of  compassion.  Then  he  said,  dully,  drearily : 

"  You  will  think  differently  when  you've  had  time, 
dear.  I  shall  not  hold  you  to  those  dear  words.  Now, 
let's  deal  with  the  present.  What  has  happened?  " 

She  told  him  in  as  few  words  as  possible.  In  the  end, 
she  cried  out  bitterly: 

"  We  haven't  so  much  to  be  proud  of,  have  we  ? 
Nothing  to  be  set  up  about,  Jack  dear." 

He  was  touched  by  the  abject  humility  in  her  voice 
and  manner.  Her  news  had  not  produced  in  him  the 
sensation  of  surprise  and  horror  she  expected.  He 
had  listened  intently,  but  without  a  trace  of  excite 
ment.  This  was  a  man's  affair,  and  John  Payson  was 


396  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

schooled  in  the  ways  of  men ;  he  came  by  it  naturally. 
He  had  seen  other  men  in  dire  disaster,  and  other  women. 
He  had  seen  them  in  the  depths  and  on  the  heights, 
and  he  had  learned  his  lesson  in  the  study  of  human 
emotions  not  so  much  through  the  medium  of  senti 
mentality  as  by  means  of  a  shrewd  estimate  of  the 
intermediate  levels.  Man  is  up  to-day  and  down  to 
morrow.  His  true  position  is  not  known,  even  to  him 
self,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  passes  it  by  without 
stopping.  He  has  no  self -recognised  level;  he  avoids 
it  because  it  is  a  commonplace  state  fit  only  for  im 
beciles. 

John  Payson  had  the  power  to  analyse  despair.  He 
knew  that  the  breath  of  a  fair  wind  invariably  blew 
warm  against  it  and  that  the  spirits  went  up  as  the 
mercury  goes;  a  bleak  wind  drives  them  down.  The 
same  with  joy.  He  had  but  to  assure  Mary  Midthorne 
that  he  would  do  everything  in  his  power  to  help  her 
brother,  and  to  set  about  doing  it,  and  the  despair  that 
filled  her  for  the  moment  would  fly  before  the  rush  of 
hope  and  confidence. 

He  had  seen  the  gloom  of  despair  lift  from  the  faces 
of  men  whose  fortunes  were  at  the  lowest  ebb  at  the 
cheerfully  uttered  sentence :  "  Well,  things  really  look 
better  to  me  to-day  than  they  did  yesterday." 

He  took  the  girl's  hands  in  his  and  said  firmly : 

"  Nothing  will  come  of  it,  Mary.  Rest  easy.  Your 
brother  is  taking  the  right  direction  at  last.  There 
is  but  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  I  fancy  he  is  doing 
it.  He  knows  he  is  not  morally  guilty.  What  he 
wants  is  a  clear  slate  so  far  as  the  law  is  concerned. 
After  all  that  is  over,  he  will  be  in  debt  to  no  man. 
But,  as  you  say,  he  needs  a  cheerful  friend  to  help 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      397 

him  at  the  outset.  Well,  I  can  be  cheerful  if  needs 
be.  I'm  not  much  to  speak  of  at  present,  but  I'm 
better  than  a  fair-weather  friend.  He  has  undoubtedly 
gone  to  the  sheriff's  office.  I  will  hurry  over  at  once 
and  see  what  can  be  done  about  the  bond.  He  will 
need  that,  of  course.  I  can  manage  it  easily  if  it  isn't 
too  steep.  This  house  belongs  to  me;  also  the  office 
building  at  the  corner  of  Main  and  Fourth  Streets. 
That  should  be  sufficient  security  for  — " 

"  Oh,  Jack,  I  didn't  come  here  to  ask  you  to  go  bail 
for  him,"  she  cried,  a  deep  flush  in  her  cheek.  "  We 
couldn't  think  of  it.  You  didn't  understand  me,  I  am 
sure." 

"  You  mean  that  Eric  would  not  accept  me  as 
surety  ?  "  he  asked,  his  face  clouding. 

"  No,  no, —  not  that  either,"  she  said,  greatly  dis 
tressed.  "  Only  that  you  should  not  be  asked  to  risk 
your  property  — " 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  said,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
relief  in  his  voice.  "  Now,  go  home,  please,  and  rest 
secure.  Don't  stay  here,  little  girl.  I  will  go  to  the 
Court-house  as  soon  as  the  doctor  comes  out  to  report. 
Mother  won't  mind  being  left  alone  for  a  while.  Pro 
vided,  of  course,  there  is  no  immediate — " 

She  caught  the  note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice.  "  No, 
Jack  dear,  you  must  not  leave  her.  I  will  not  let  you 
do  it.  Your  place  is  here.  It  was  horribly  selfish  of 
me  to  even  think  — " 

A  door  near  at  hand  was  closed  gently;  then  came 
the  rustle  of  heavy  curtains,  and  the  tread  of  foot 
steps  in  the  parlour.  Mary  shot  an  anxious  look  over 
her  shoulder,  arresting  her  own  self-arraignment. 

"  The  doctor,"  said  he  quickly.     He  crossed  rapidly 


398  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

and  opened  the  door.  Then,  with  a  glance  at  her,  he 
left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  She  was 
left  alone. 

Not  more  than  a  minute  passed  before  he  returned. 
She  could  read  nothing  in  his  face. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said.  "  Dr.  Spooner  says  there 
is  no  change.  He  may  die  within  the  hour  or  he  may 
live  for  years.  We  have  sent  to  New  York  for  nurses 
and  another  doctor.  They  get  here  this  afternoon. 
He  —  he  is  hopelessly  paralysed.  There  was  an  apo 
plectic  stroke  as  well.  So,  you  see,  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  what  the  outcome  will  be." 

She  shuddered.  Her  lips  parted,  but  in  horror,  not 
in  the  effort  to  speak. 

"  I  can't  leave  her  just  now,"  he  went  on  painfully. 
"  It  wouldn't  be  right.  I  can't  do  it,  not  even  for 
you,  Mary.  She  wants  me  to  come  in  there  now.  Go, 
please,  and  try  to  forget  that  I  ever  — "  He  could  not 
complete  the  sentence,  but  turned  away  to  hide  his 
twitching  lips  and  moist  eyes. 

She  waited  for  a  long  time  before  speaking.  Her 
heart  was  aching  as  it  had  never  ached  before. 

"  Listen,  John,"  she  said  at  last,  "  let  me  ask  this 
question:  when  were  you  told  the  truth  about  yourself, 
and  by  whom?  " 

He  faced  her  reluctantly.  "  Last  night.  She  told 
me.  We  were  sitting  in  this  room.  He  —  oh,  why 
should  we  go  into  all  this?  I  can't  talk  about  it. 
Good-bye,  Mary.  Don't  stay  a  minute  longer.  You 
must  go." 

"  Yes,  John,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  will  go  now.  I 
won't  ask  you  to  tell  me  anything  more.  I  don't  want 
to  hear  it.  But,  listen  to  me,  dear :  nothing  —  nothing 
in  all  this  world,  can  alter  my  love  for  you,  nothing 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      399 

can  come  between  us.  It  is  you  I  love.  Do  you  un 
derstand?  "  She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders.  There  was  a  wonderful  sweetness  in 
her  voice. 

"  My  little  Mary,"  he  murmured,  shaken  by  a  mighty 
storm  of  emotion.  He  put  his  hands  to  her  cool  white 
cheeks  and  kissed  her  on  the  brow:  not  the  kiss  of  pas 
sion,  but  of  boundless  adoration. 

She  smiled,  her  eyes  looking  full  into  his:  a  smile 
so  steadfast  and  grave  that  he  was  never  to  forget  it. 

"  Let  me  know,  John,  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do 
for  —  you,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  will  come  if  you 
need  me." 

She  passed  from  the  room  and  out  of  the  house.  He 
followed  her  to  the  door.  She  did  not  look  back.  When 
she  was  out  of  sight  beyond  the  row  of  houses,  he 
turned  back,  a  great  sigh  escaping  his  lips.  His  feet 
dragged,  his  shoulders  drooped  as  he  crossed  the  parlour 
and  drew  aside  the  curtains. 

The  bedroom  beyond  was  darkened.  Closed  shut 
ters  and  drawn  shades  kept  out  the  cheerful  morning 
sun.  The  habit  of  darkening  a  sickroom  still  obtained 
in  Corinth.  In  the  corner  beyond  the  window  was  the 
bed,  white  against  the  shadowy  walls.  Heavy,  sterto 
rous  breathing  came  from  the  lungs  of  the  motionless 
figure  that  stretched  its  length  limply  under  the  cover 
let.  There  was  no  other  sound  to  be  heard  about  the 
house.  Only  this  ghastly  breathing.  Payson  stopped 
in  the  doorway,  his  heart  sick  with  sudden,  overwhelm 
ing  pity  for  the  once  strong,  virile  man  he  had  known 
all  his  life  as  a  friend,  steadfast  and  true.  Whatever 
else,  he  was  a  friend  worth  having. 

The  Widow  Payson  sat  near  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Either  she  did  not  hear  the  man  at  the  door  or  she 


400  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

was  indifferent  to  his  presence  in  the  room.  At  any 
rate,  she  did  not  look  up,  but  kept  her  chin  lowered  and 
her  eyes  closed.  She  rocked  gently,  mechanically,  in 
the  low  old-fashioned  chair. 

He  watched  her  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  A 
great  sob  welled  up  in  his  throat,  his  eyes  smarted  with 
the  rush  of  tears.  Going  to  her  side,  he  dropped  to 
his  knees  and  began  kissing  the  worn,  bony  hand  of 
the  woman  who  sat  sentinel  over  the  man  who  was  his 
father. 

She  opened  her  tired,  dry  eyes,  and  after  a  moment 
smiled. 

"  Don't  cry,  laddie,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  ca 
ressingly  on  his  head.  "  I  am  sorry  I  told  you.  He 
may  never  speak  again.  I  could  have  gone  to  my  grave 
with  the  secret  safe,  and  you  would  never  have  been 
the  wiser.  It  would  have  been  better.  He  meant  you 
never  should  know,  and  he  was  right.  I  betrayed  him. 
Sometimes  I  think  he  knows  that  I  have  told  you.  It's 
a  queer  feeling  I  have,  with  him  lying  there  sense- 
}ess  and  unknowing.  Yet  I  have  the  feeling  that  he 
heard  me  talking  last  night,  that  he  is  listening  now. 
If  he  does  know,  he  must  be  hating  me  with  all  his  soul. 
He  must  be  despising  — " 

"Sh!  Don't  say  that,  Mother.  Hate  you?  Why, 
how  could  he  hate  you, —  you  who  have  done  so  much 
for  him  and  for  me?  Think  of  all  the  years  of  mother 
ing  me." 

"All  the  years,"  she  sighed.  "Thirty  odd.  And 
now  they're  behind  me,  with  only  blank  ones  ahead. 
Ah,  my  little  laddie,  it  is  I  who  have  suffered  the 
cruelest  blow,  after  all,  and  all  through  my  own  folly. 
Why  couldn't  I  have  held  my  stupid  tongue?  But  I 
thought  he  was  dying.  I  thought  the  end  had  come. 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET     401 

I  was  terrified.  To  think  of  him  dying  like  that  — 
strong,  healthy  man  that  he  was.  And  you  not  know 
ing  he  was  your  own  father.  Why,  I  —  I  just  couldn't 
keep  it  back.  Alack!  It  has  cost  him  nothing,  nor 
has  he  gained  more  than  he  had  before,  but  I  have  lost 
my  laddie, —  I  have  lost  my  little  sonnie." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  rocked  back 
and  forth  in  the  chair,  moaning  as  old  women  moan 
when  stricken  deep.  Old  women!  The  years  have 
spared  them  the  strength  to  moan;  the  shrill  outcry 
is  no  longer  their  tribute  to  pain  or  grief.  And  yet 
what  shriek  of  despair  is  more  potent  than  the  humble 
groan  of  an  old  woman? 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  thin  shoulders  and  drew 
her  head  close  to  his  breast. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Mother  dear,"  he  said,  with  infinite 
gentleness.  "  You  will  always  be  mother  to  me.  There 
never  will  come  a  time  when  I  will  think  of  you  as 
anything  else.  You  are  my  dear  little  mother.  Why, 
how  can  I  think  of  you  as  being  anything  but  mother? 
It  is  not  possible.  Do  you  think  that  a  single  day 
can  wipe  out  the  thing  I  have  believed  ever  since  I  can 
remember?  Haven't  you  always  been  mother  to  me? 
Can  you  expect  me  to  forget  that  you  are  mother  and 
then  look  upon  that  strange  man  over  there  as  father? 
It  isn't  possible.  It  never  can  be  possible.  He  is  not 
*  father J  to  me,  nor  can  you  ever  be  anything  but 
'  mother.' " 

"  Ah,  John,  you  do  not  understand,"  she  argued  pa 
tiently.  "  The  truth  is  out.  Nothing  can  overcome 
that  —  not  your  reasoning,  nor  your  love,  nor  your 
loyalty.  I  am  not  your  mother.  You  may  say  what 
you  like,  but  down  deep  in  your  heart  I  am  not  what  I 
was  to  you  yesterday  —  and  all  the  years  before  yes- 


402  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

terday.  You  have  lost  a  mother.  You  cannot  put 
me  back  where  I  was  yesterday.  I  did  not  bring  you 
into  the  world.  You  never  saw  your  mother,  but  you 
never  can  put  away  from  you  the  fact  that  she  once 
lived  and  bore  you.  You  cannot  think  of  me  as  you 
must  think  of  her — " 

"  Listen,  Mother,"  he  interrupted,  "  listen  to  me. 
Haven't  I  always  thought  of  Henry  Payson  as  my 
father?  In  spite  of  that  man  there,  in  spite  of  what 
I  know  to  be  true,  I  shall  always  think  of  Henry 
Payson  as  4  father.*  I  cannot  help  it.  It's  in  here 
somewhere  —  in  my  brain,  in  my  heart.  Just  as  you 
are  in  here.  What  was  the  other  woman  to  me?  Not 
even  a  memory.  I  never  saw  Henry  Payson,  yet  you 
know  what  he  has  always  been  to  me.  My  father." 

"  Hush,  John,"  she  cautioned,  with  a  quick  glance 
at  the  pallid  face  of  Adam  Carr.  "  He  may  be  able 
to  hear.  He  may  understand." 

"Understand?  What  if  he  does?  He  has  always 
understood.  It  would  be  nothing  new  to  him.  He  has 
expected  nothing  of  me  —  he  has  asked  for  nothing 
except  my  friendship.  Ah,  I  begin  to  understand  some 
things  myself.  I  know  now  why  I  have  always  liked, 
always  admired  Adam  Carr.  I  know  why  I  have  al 
ways  depended  on  him,  and  been  guided  by  him.  He 
had  the  right  to  govern ;  he  had  the  right  to  claim  what 
Nature  had  given  him." 

"  Poor  man,"  sighed  the  Widow  Payson.  "  He  was 
a  better  father  to  you  than  most  fathers  are  to  the 
boys  who  know  them  as  such.  All  his  life  he  has  been 
thinking  of  you,  doing  for  you,  saving  for  you.  I 
have  seen  his  will.  In  it  there  is  no  mention  of  the 
relationship  that  exists,  but  everything  he  possesses 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      403 

goes  to  *  John  Payson,  son  of  my  old  friend  Henry 
Payson,  deceased.'  Even  after  his  death,  you  were  not 
to  know.  He  has  told  me  a  thousand  times  that  it 
would  wreck  your  life  if  you  ever  came  to  know.  It 
was  his  will  and  I  obeyed.  Nothing  could  change  him, 
nothing  could  break  him.  I  never  knew  a  man  so  set  in 
his  ways.  But  you  could  tell  that  by  his  face.  And 
you,  John,  are  like  him  in  a  good  many  ways.  You 
never  flinch,  you  never  give  in.  Ah,  how  many  times 
have  I  said  to  myself  '  like  father,  like  son.*  " 

"  Like  him  in  every  way,"  said  he  bitterly.  "  Mid- 
thorne  noticed  it.  He  threw  it  in  my  face, —  he  threw 
Adam  Carr's  face  in  mine,  I  shall  never  forget  that. 
Nor  shall  I  ever  forget  that  I  resented  it  more  on  Adam 
Carr's  account  than  my  own,  strange  as  it  may  seem. 
You  see,  Mother,  I've  known  my  real  father  all  my  life 
and  I've  loved  him  always." 

"  You  must  ask  God  to  forgive  you  for  the  harsh, 
cruel  things  you  said  to  him  last  night,  before  the 
stroke  came,"  she  said. 

"  God  understands  everything,"  said  he.  "  My 
heart  was  full  of  misery.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
Adam  Carr  taunted  me.  He  laughed  at  me  when  I 
commanded  him  to  dispel  the  doubts  my  mind  had  fixed 
on." 

"  He  was  beside  himself,"  she  explained.  "  You 
were  driving  him  too  hard.  I  could  see  the  sweat  on 
his  brow." 

He  shuddered.  "  What  a  horrible  thing  it  was ! 
What  a  dreadful  night !  " 

"  It  came  upon  him,  even  as  he  laughed.  I  —  I 
wonder  if  God  struck  him  for  that."  There  was  awe 
in  the  old  woman's  face. 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

"  I  wonder,"  he  repeated  after  her. 

The  events  of  the  preceding  night  may  be  chron 
icled  in  few  words. 

Adam  Carr  was  coming  to  have  tea  with  them  in  the 
evening.  Mrs.  Payson  and  John  waited  for  him  until 
long  past  the  hour  signified, —  one  that  he  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  observing  as  long  as  they  could  remem 
ber, —  but  as  he  did  not  appear  they  sat  down  without 
him.  She  had  remarked  a  curious  depression  in  his 
manner  when  he  dropped  in  shortly  after  the  morning 
service.  He  seemed  unusually  "  down  in  the  mouth," 
as  she  expressed  it,  and  significantly  inquisitive  as  to 
the  whereabouts  of  her  son.  He  never  spoke  of  him 
except  as  "  her  son."  After  a  restless,  preoccupied  ten 
minutes,  he  left,  with  the  statement  that  he  was  going 
off  for  a  long  walk  on  Stone  Wall.  He  would  be  back 
for  tea  at  half-past  six.  When  he  did  not  appear  at 
that  hour,  nor  up  to  eight  o'clock,  she  suggested  to 
John  that  he  make  inquiry  of  old  Jabez,  and,  failing 
there,  in  other  directions. 

At  ten  o'clock  John  met  him  in  the  road,  half-way 
to  Bud's  Rock.  He  was  slowly  walking  homeward. 
The  moon  was  high  and  full,  and*  the  thick,  familiar 
figure  was  distinguishable  for  a  long  distance  on  the 
shell  road. 

He  gave  no  satisfactory  answer  to  John's  impatient 
questions,  but  testily  said  that  he  had  gone  off  to  think 
something  over  where  he  would  not  be  disturbed.  A 
matter,  he  said,  that  was  of  the  gravest  importance. 
Payson  quite  naturally  thought  he  had  reference  to 
an  important  piece  of  secret  service  work. 

Adam  accompanied  the  young  man  to  his  home,  and 
•went  in  to  say  good  night  to  Mrs.  Payson  and  to 
apologise  for  his  unprecedented  rudeness  in  forgetting 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      405 

tea.  He  acted  so  queerly  that  Jack  insisted  on  going 
down  to  the  hotel  with  him.  His  eyes  were  uncom 
monly  prominent  and  stary,  and  his  face  was  livid;  his 
breathing  was  hard,  his  lips  sagged  instead  of  holding 
the  firm,  rigid  line  that  always  marked  them. 

He  sat  listless  and  morose  in  the  big  chair  before 
the  fireplace.  The  night-air  from  the  sea  had  chilled 
him  to  the  marrow.  Payson  set  about  to  cheer  him 
up.  He  began  by  telling  him  of  Horace  Blagden's  re 
markable  after-service  concession.  Carr  picked  up  his 
ears  while  John  was  commenting  on  Horace's  sudden 
change  of  front,  and  even  entered  into  the  discussion; 
sceptically,  it  is  true,  but  not  without  interest.  He  ad 
vanced  the  caustic  opinion  that  Mr.  Blagden  was  as 
playful  as  a  tiger,  and  as  safe  to  deal  with.  Neverthe 
less,  he  was  keenly  interested  in  Jack's  opinion  that 
Horace  would  no  longer  oppose  the  marriage. 

One  obstacle  was  left  in  the  way,  John  announced; 
it  would  have  to  be  removed  before  he  could  conscien 
tiously  hold  Mary  to  her  promise,  which  had  been  re 
newed  that  afternoon  in  no  half-hearted  terms.  This 
led  up  to  the  question  that  lay  so  heavily  in  the  lover's 
mind.  What  was  the  nature  of  the  mystery  attending 
his  own  origin?  Adam's  slack  lips  straightened  out 
in  a  hard,  stubborn  line;  he  briefly  declared  that  there 
was  nothing  to  tell.  Payson  interrupted  the  look  that 
passed  between  the  man  and  the  woman,  and  flew  into  a 
quick  passion.  He  demanded  the  truth  from  them. 
The  time  had  come  when  even  his  mother's  feelings  were 
not  to  be  spared. 

Mrs.  Payson  began  to  cry  softly.  Adam  Carr  up 
braided  her,  an  act  so  unusual  that  John  at  first  was 
rendered  speechless  by  a  sort  of  stupefaction.  The 
situation  was  tense,  dramatic.  With  a  great  dread  in 


406  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

his  soul,  the  young  man  turned  upon  his  mother  and 
besought  her  to  tell  him  the  truth,  no  matter  what  the 
cost  to  him  or  to  her. 

She  shrank  away  from  him  mumbling  piteously.. 
Then,  he  confronted  Adam  Carr.  The  older  man  looked 
up  into  the  distorted  face  of  the  pleader  and  stubbornly 
insisted  that  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  A  sort  of  frenzy 
took  possession  of  the  young  man.  His  manner  be 
came  threatening.  Adam  continued  to  smile,  but  there 
was  a  hunted,  imploring  look  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  shrivel  up  in  the  chair,  to  grow  older  and  weaker 
as  he  met  the  harsh  charges  without  so  much  as  a  word 
of  anger  or  resentment. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  laugh. 

"  Good  heaven !  "  cried  John  savagely.  "  What  is 
there  to  laugh  at  ?  " 

The  senseless  laughter  continued  for  a  moment,  and 
then  died  away  in  a  raucous  gurgle.  A  purplish  hue 
spread  over  Adam  Carr's  face,  his  eyes  bulged,  his 
hands  dropped  limply  from  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

A  long  while  afterward,  as  John  worked  feverishly 
with  the  stricken  man,  he  became  dimly  conscious  of 
the  words  his  mother  was  moaning  in  his  ear  as  she,, 
too,  leaned  over  the  form  of  Adam  Carr,  now  lying  on^ 
the  bed  in  the  little  room  off  the  parlour. 

"  He  is  your  father,  John,"  she  was  saying.  "  Be 
good  to  him !  Don't  let  him  die.  He  is  your  own  father. 
Do  you  hear  me  ?  Save  him !  Your  own  father !  " 

The  blow  had  fallen.  John  Payson  had  got  the  truth 
at  last. 

Later  on,  he  received  another  and  more  devastating 
shock.  He  learned  from  her  lips  that  the  woman  he 
bad  always  known  as  his  mother  was  not  his  mother; 


in  no  way  was  she  related  to  him.  The  blow  left  him 
dazed,  and  quite  as  powerless  as  the  paralysed  creature 
on  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Payson  herself  went  forth  and  aroused  a  neigh 
bour,  who  set  off  in  haste  to  summon  Dr.  Spooner. 

John  Payson  was  like  his  father  in  many  ways. 
Among  others,  he  possessed  a  wonderful  power  of  self- 
control.  In  a  surprisingly  short  time,  he  was  able  to 
face  the  crisis  with  as  much  composure  and  restraint  as 
might  have  been  expected  of  Adam  Carr  under  similar 
circumstances.  It  was  in  the  blood. 

In  the  kitchen,  while  the  doctor  was  working  over 
the  unconscious  man  in  the  bedroom,  he  stood  before 
the  Widow  Payson  and  listened  to  a  story  that  went 
back  thirty  years  and  more,  listened  calmly  and  without 
interruptions  until  every  word  of  it  was  told.  Then 
he  went  back  with  her  to  sit  beside  the  man  who  would 
not  acknowledge  him  but  who  loved  him  so  well  that 
he  would  die  with  the  secret  locked  in  his  heart.  The 
father  who  would  not  put  the  blight  upon  him. 


And  now,  the  morning  after,  they  again  sat  by  the 
bedside. 

"  Tell  me  once  more,"  said  John  gently,  "  just  how  it 
was  that  she  —  my  mother  —  came  to  you." 

He  had  gone  over  to  peer  into  the  unseeing  eyes  of 
his  father,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  no  sign  of  awakening 
intelligence  was  there. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  nervously.  "  If  he  should 
really  be  able  to  hear,  he  would  curse  me  I  am  sure 
for—" 

"  Nonsense,  Mother,"  he  said.  **  He  will  live  to 
bless  you.  Matters  will  be  very  simple  after  all  this 


408  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

is  passed.     He  will  thank  you  for  giving  him  back  his 


son. 

M 


Yes,  for  robbing  myself  of  one,"  she  lamented. 

"  You  will  always  be  mother  to  me,"  said  he  gently. 
"  Tell  me  again  of  her, —  the  other  one.  I  have  to  get 
it  all  clearly  in  my  mind.  It's  vague  now." 

She  repeated  the  story  of  how  he  came  into  the  world ; 
and  into  her  possession  almost  immediately  after  that 
event.  Now  she  told  it  clearly,  concisely,  not  distract 
edly  as  in  the  night.  She  was  a  woman  of  few  words, 
and  always  had  been.  Her  prayers  were  short,  morn 
ing  and  night.  She  could  not  have  made  them  long. 

"  Adam  came  to  my  husband  one  day  and  said  that 
Lucy  Barlow  was  in  trouble.  She  was  expecting  a 
baby.  He  implored  Henry  to  take  h«*  up  to  Halifax 
on  the  Lanigan.  She  was  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl 
in  all  Gloucester,  I  will  say  that,  laddie.  Her  father 
was  the  captain  of  a  whaler  and  was  away  for  many 
months  out  of  the  year.  Her  mother  was  dead,  so 
Lucy  spent  most  of  her  time  with  an  uncle  who  lived 
here  in  Corinth.  In  the  summer  time  she  went  to  Glou 
cester  to  visit  an  aunt.  But  while  she  was  here,  we 
saw  a  great  deal  of  her.  She  met  Adam  Carr  at  our 
house.  He  was  already  married,  and  he  was  very  young 
• — too  young  for  the  woman  he  was  married  to.  He 
wasn't  more  than  twenty-three  or  twenty-four  and  she 
was  thirty-five.  They  were  not  happy  together.  Well, 
of  course,  he  fell  in  love  with  Lucy.  That's  the  long  and 
the  short  of  it. 

"  They  just  couldn't  help  themselves,  it  was  that 
right  and  natural.  Well,  my  husband  asked  me  what 
we  should  do  to  help  her,  and  I  said  at  once  that  I 
would  go  up  to  Halifax  with  him  on  the  next  voyage 
and  take  Lucy  along.  Your  father  —  I  mean  Adam 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET      409 

Carr,  of  course, —  was  boarding  with  us  at  the  time. 
His  wife  lived  in  Gloucester.  He  persuaded  Lucy  to 
go  with  us,  promising  to  come  up  as  soon  as  he  could 
arrange  to  do  so.  He  was  mate  on  his  father's  fishing 
schooner  and  couldn't  get  away  at  that  time.  It  was 
his  plan  to  get  a  divorce  from  his  wife,  but  just  how  it 
was  to  be  done  I  can't  say.  It  never  did  happen,  but 
it  didn't  matter  in  the  end.  She  died  a  few  years  later. 
It's  a  God's  pity  she  couldn't  have  died  before  Lucy  had 
her  trouble.  We  took  Lucy  away  on  the  Lanigan. 
I  was  to  stay  with  her  through  it  all,  and  the  Lanigan 
started  back  to  Corinth.  She  went  down  with  all  on 
board  just  inside  Eddy's  Islands  on  the  awful  night 
you've  heard  —  oh,  but  I  can't  speak  of  that !  My 
husband  was  lost. 

"  I  left  Lucy  there  and  came  back  here  to  wait  for 
the  sea  to  give  up  my  dead.  My  own  baby  was  coming. 
Ah,  it  was  a  dreadful,  dreadful  time,  my  laddie.  Well, 
one  day,  four  or  five  months  after  the  wreck,  Adam 
Carr  came  to  me  with  a  letter  from  Lucy.  She  wanted 
him  to  come  to  her  at  once.  I  went  with  him  by 
steamer.  We  got  there  just  before  you  were  born. 
Lucy  died  the  next  day.  Three  weeks  later  my  baby 
came, —  a  girl  baby,  and  my  only  one.  My  little  one 
died  the  day  it  was  born,  but  Lucy's  lived  and  thrived. 

"  It  was  then  that  Adam  Carr  suggested  that  I  be 
mother  to  you,  that  you  be  known  as  Henry  Payson's 
boy  as  long  as  you  should  live.  He  begged  so  hard 
and  I  wanted  my  own  baby  so  much  that  I  —  well,  I 
fell  in  with  his  plan.  That  is  how  you  came  into  the 
world  and  how  you  became  John  Payson,  son  of  Henry 
Payson,  lost  at  sea  months  before  you  were  born.  I 
have  tried  to  be  a  good  mother  to  you,  laddie,  all  these 
years,  and  now  — " 


410  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  leaned  over  and  kissed  her,  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  cheeks.  She  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  the 
lament  to  stroke  his  hand  and  murmur  words  of  com 
fort. 

Then,  as  if  moved  by  a  common  impulse,  they  arose 
and  stood  together  at  the  side  of  the  man  in  the  bed. 
He  was  staring  straight  up  into  their  faces,  and  there 
was  unmistakable  intelligence  in  those  bloodshot,  bul 
ging  eyes.  They  drew  back  appalled.  He  knew !  He 
had  heard  and  he  understood ! 

Suddenly  John  stepped  forward  and  tenderly  laid 
his  hand  on  Adam  Carr's  forehead.  He  bent  forward 
and  said: 

"  It's  all  right,  Father.     It's  all  right." 

Adam  Carr's  eyes  closed  slowly. 

*'  The  New  York  doctor  will  be  here  at  two,  and  the 
nurse  also,"  said  the  son,  as  much  for  the  stricken  man's 
benefit  as  for  the  Widow  Payson. 

The  outer  door  was  opened,  and  someone  entered 
the  parlour.  An  odd  expression  came  into  John  Pay- 
son's  face.  His  jaw  fell;  a  look  of  utter  dismay  grew 
in  his  eyes. 

"  Why  —  why,"  he  began  blankly,  "  I  don't  believe 
I  told  Mary  that  you  are  not  my  mother.  I  didn't 
think.  She  must  think  that  you  —  you  are — " 

Someone  was  rapping  on  the  door  casing  not  ten  feet 
away,  a  gentle  but  imperative  summons  that  cut  short 
his  wretched  reflections. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  he  called  out  in  subdued  tones. 

"  It  is  I,"  came  back  in  Mary's  voice.  "  I  have  come 
to  see  if  I  can  help  you  and  your  mother." 

He  sprang  forward  and  drew  the  curtains  apart. 

S6  Eric   has   telephoned   from   the    Court-house   that 


THE  MORNING  IN  HANDY  STREET 

everything  is  well  with  him.     So  I  came  here  as  quickly 
as  I  could." 

She  came  bravely  into  the  room  and  looked  at  Adam 
Carr. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ME.    COOPEE'S    BUSY    DAY 

IT  was  by  far  the  busiest  day  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Cooper,  editor.  Do  not  overlook  the  fact  that  he  was 
deprived  of  the  right  to  publish  the  one  great  piece 
of  news  produced  in  Corinth  and  by  Corinth  some 
years  prior  to  the  prodigious  doings  of  this  day  in 
April.  At  that  time,  you  may  remember,  he  got  very 
drunk  because  he  could  not  "  print  the  news."  On  the 
present  occasion  he  imbibed  freely  because  he  could 
print  it.  When  you  stop  to  consider  that  the  Corinth 
Courier  was  made  up  largely  of  "  plate  matter  "  and 
"  standing  ads,"  and  that  Joseph  was  aided  in  the  col 
lection  of  sparse  local  news  items  by  a  youngster  who 
could  spell  beautifully  but  had  no  definite  idea  when 
to  do  it,  you  may  in  a  sense  appreciate  the  magnitude 
of  the  task  that  confronted  him.  All  in  one  day  came 
three  of  the  most  startling  "  stories  "  Corinth  had  ever 
known.  So  all-absorbing  were  these  items  that  a  dis 
astrous  runaway  on  Main  Street  was  completely  over 
looked  by  the  bibulous  scribe  and  his  panic-stricken 
assistant,  with  the  result  that  Mr.  Peters,  who  had  an 
arm  broken  in  the  tumble  from  his  waggon,  ordered  his 
paper  stopped  because  no  mention  was  made  of  the 
"  item."  What  was  the  sense,  said  he,  of  having  your 
arm  broken  in  the  most  thrilling  runaway  of  the  year 
if  the  fool  reporters  didn't  put  it  in  the  paper?  And 
he  was  right.  What  was  the  sense? 

First  of  all,  Joseph  had  the  Hon.  Horace  Blagden's 

412 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  413 

wonderful  gift  to  the  City  to  "  write  up."  That,  in 
itself,  was  enough  to  bring  out  all  that  was  in  him  for 
one  day.  Just  as  he  was  comfortably  well  under  way 
on  the  job, —  and  long  before  his  first  drink  of  the  day, 
—  came  those  staggering  developments  at  the  Court 
house.  Before  he  could  turn  round,  it  seemed  to  him, 
the  cry  went  up  that  Adam  Carr,  the  celebrated  de 
tective,  had  been  foully  assassinated.  From  that  time 
on  Joseph  did  nothing  but  turn  around;  he  fairly 
whirled.  The  cub  reporter  ran  up  and  down-stairs  so 
often  that  it  got  to  be  a  habit  with  him,  and  he  couldn't 
stop.  Two  amiable  and  resourceful  tramp  printers, 
loafing  in  the  composing  room,  came  to  the  rescue. 
They  went  out  and  gathered  up  the  stray  ends  of  the 
news,  put  them  together,  and  set  type  so  rapidly  and 
at  such  length  that  Joseph  never  quite  recovered  from 
his  surprise  and  gratification.  They  "  lifted "  ads 
without  discrimination  and  substituted  live  "  reading 
matter  " ;  they  "  chopped  out "  columns  of  paid  locals 
with  a  prodigality  that  cost  Joseph  as  much  as  twenty 
dollars  in  "  trade  " ;  they  got  the  news  and  they  printed 
the  news;  they  transformed  the  Courier  into  a  sicken 
ing  mass  of  typographical  errors, —  for  no  one  was 
there  to  read  proof  on  them, —  but  they  turned  out  a 
"  scarehead  "  journal  that  Corinth  never  quite  got  over 
talking  about. 

After  it  was  all  over,  they  drew  their  pay, —  a  stag 
gering  lot  of  ems  they  had  set,  by  the  way, —  and  pro 
ceeded  to  get  luxuriously  tight,  landing  in  gaol  before 
midnight.  Which  produced  another  sensation  for  the 
cub  reporter  the  next  day.  There  had  not  been  a  po 
lice  court  trial  in  a  month.  It  was  the  cub  reporter's 
practice  to  make  long  visits  in  the  town  hall  daily,  be- 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

tween  trains,  because  it  was  cool  there  in  the  summer 
time  and  warm  in  the  winter.  Generally  you  could 
catch  him  napping  there. 

The  leading  editorial  in  the  Courier  on  this  memora 
ble  day  was  not  written  by  Mr.  Cooper.  It  was  in  the 
shape  of  a  proclamation,  and  it  was  written  and  signed 
by  Horace  Blagden  in  his  private  room  at  the  bank. 
It  crowded  out  the  magnificent  editorial  tribute  de 
vised  by  Joseph  Cooper  to  reflect,  in  an  anticipatory 
sort  of  way,  the  boundless  gratitude  of  the  people  who 
were  to  be  benefited  by  the  princely  gift  of  Mr.  Blag- 
den,  "  exclusive  mention  of  which  may  be  found  in  an 
other  column  of  this  issue." 

This  signed  statement  of  Horace  Blagden  was  more 
remarkable  than  anything  that  had  ever  appeared  in 
the  Courier.  It  may  be  set  forth  here  in  few  words, 
although  it  covered  more  than  an  entire  column  of  the 
newspaper. 

The  father  of  Chetwynd  Blagden  took  this  means  of 
announcing  to  the  world  that  he  held  Eric  Midthorne 
absolutely  blameless ! 

Moreover,  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  considered  the 
taking  off  of  his  son  to  be  the  act  of  a  just,  all-wise 
Providence,  "  whose  ways,  though  strange  and  inscruta 
ble,  bring  pain  only  to  him  who  seeks  to  dispute  them." 
He  declared,  in  no  half-hearted  terms,  that  he  would 
stand  at  his  unhappy  nephew's  side  during  the  trial  that 
was  to  come,  not  as  prosecutor  but  as  defender,  and  that 
through  him,  the  father,  the  spirit  of  Chetwynd  Blag 
den  would  rise  to  proclaim  the  innocence  of  the  self- 
accused.  It  was  his  prayer  that  the  case  might  be 
brought  to  trial  without  delay,  and  that  justice  might  be 
appeased  in  the  speedy  acquittal  of  **  my  beloved  nephew, 
Eric  Midthorne." 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  415 

The  name  of  Adam  Carr  was  not  mentioned. 

In  another  column,  however,  appeared  the  news  of 
Mr.  Carr's  illness.  The  one  great  feature  of  the  story 
was  missing,  however,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  did 
not  come  to  light. 

Mary  Midthorne  prevailed.  She  was  at  the  Payson 
cottage  when  the  polite  printer  appeared,  in  eager  pur 
suit  of  the  news.  If  he  was  disappointed  to  learn  that 
there  had  been  no  assassination,  he  was  careful  to  con 
ceal  the  fact.  In  truth,  he  admitted  cheerfully  that 
he  was  "  blamed  glad  of  it,"  they  were  so  hard  pressed 
for  time  and  room  up  at  the  Courier  office.  Mary 
kept  John  Payson  from  revealing  more  of  the  truth 
than  was  necessary  concerning  Adam  Carr.  The  per 
spiring  printer  went  away  directly,  in  possession  of 
everything  except  the  sensation  involved. 

"Why  should  you  tell  it  to  the  world?"  argued 
Mary,  confronting  Payson  and  his  foster-mother  in 
the  kitchen,  whither  they  had  fled  leaving  the  unsus 
pecting  doctor  to  tell  what  he  knew  to  the  interviewer. 
"  He  doesn't  acknowledge  you  as  his  son,  why  should 
you  say  he  is  your  father?  Just  four  people  know  the 
truth,  John.  It  has  been  a  secret  held  by  two  people 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  Why  can't  we  keep  it  to 
the  very  end?  Just  you  and  I  and  Mrs.  Payson.  He 
will  never  speak." 

Payson  agreed  to  this,  with  the  single  provision  that 
in  due  time  Eric  should  be  told. 

A  week  passed.  In  that  period,  Corinth  came  to 
appreciate  the  unfaltering  growth  of  two  conditions, 
not  unlike  in  character,  but  entirely  foreign  to  each 
other.  In  one  instance  it  was  the  devoted  loyalty  of 
Joan  Bright  to  Eric  Midthorne;  in  the  other,  the  sur 
prising  devotion  of  Mary  Midthorne  to  the  sick  man 


41 S  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

in  the  Widow  Payson's  cottage.  There  was  no  specu 
lation  as  to  the  attitude  of  Miss  Bright,  but  in  some 
quarters  wonder  was  expressed  over  Mary's  behaviour. 
Corinth,  in  ignorance  of  the  real  situation,  found  some 
difficulty  in  satisfying  itself  as  to  an  imaginary  one. 
Of  course,  it  was  known  that  Mary  and  John  were  in 
love  with  each  other,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  devote  so  much  of  her  time  to  Adam  Carr,  out 
sider.  The  man  could  not  be  moved,  but  as  there  were 
two  nurses  in  the  house  to  attend  to  him,  with  doctors 
making  daily  visits,  it  was  not  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  Mrs.  Payson  depended  on  Mary  for  assistance. 
Moreover,  Corinth  was  still  unable  to  make  out  whether 
Adam  was  friendly  to  Mary's  brother.  In  any  event, 
he  was  distinctly  at  odds  with  Horace  Blagden,  which 
was  something. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  Adam  Carr  recovered  the 
power  of  speech.  He  was  hopelessly  paralysed  from 
the  waist  down.  At  first  he  spoke  with  an  effort,  but 
his  indomitable  will-power  overcame  the  impediment; 
he  articulated  slowly  but  clearly.  His  mind  was  clear 
and  active.  He  required  the  truth  of  the  doctors.  Get 
ting  it,  he  philosophised: 

"  There's  no  sense  in  your  waiting  around  here,  Jack. 
I  may  hang  on  for  ten  years.  Doctors  can't  tell  any 
thing  about  it,  but  Pm  such  a  tenacious  individual  that 
it's  not  likely  that  Pll  give  up  the  ghost  without  a  long 
fight.  Of  course,  I  ought  to  be  sensible  and  quit  right 
now.  Better  for  you,  better  for  me,  better  for  Mrs. 
Payson,  better  for  everybody,  if  I  could  pass  on  to 
night,  but  I  guess  it  won't  be  so  easy  as  that.  Nothing 
has  ever  been  real  easy  for  me.  Even  this  won't  be 
easy.  If  I  were  you,  I'd  get  back  to  New  York  and 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  417 

business.  I'll  be  lying  here  if  you  can  find  the  time 
week  ends,  to  come  and  see  your  mother  and  Mary. 
I  don't  mind  it  so  much,  after  all.  A  long  rest  will  do 
me  good.  As  you  won't  hear  to  me  being  removed 
to  a  hospital,  and  your  mother  won't  either,  I  guess 
I'll  have  to  stay  where  I'm  put.  In  a  week  or  two  I 
can  be  wheeled  about  in  a  chair,  so  it  won't  be  so  bad. 
Now,  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say;  get  it  firmly  in 
your  mind.  So  far  as  the  world  is  concerned,  I  am 
never  to  be  anything  more  to  you  than  Mr.  Adam. 
That's  what  I've  been  for  thirty  years.  I've  never  said 
I  was  anything  else.  I  never  will,  not  even  to  you.  It 
won't  hurt  the  world  any  to  keep  on  thinking  your 
daddy  is  out  there  in  the  Atlantic,  and  that  your  mother 
is  here  instead  of  up  there  in  the  little  graveyard  at 
Gloucester.  Horace  Blagden,  much  as  he'd  like  to, 
can't  rake  either  of  them  up.  He  only  suspects  half 
the  truth.  He  doesn't  know  about  poor  Lucy  Barlow. 
Your  mother  here  won't  mind  being  mother  to  you, 
right  or  wrong,  till  she  dies.  So  just  you  go  on  think 
ing  of  me  as  Mr.  Adam,  your  best  friend,  and  I'll  keep 
on  being  your  best  friend.  All  the  King's  horses  and 
all  the  King's  men  can't  drag  it  out  of  me.  When  it 
comes  time  for  me  to  die,  and  I  know  it,  I  may  ask  you 
to  put  your  ear  close  to  my  lips  so  that  I  can  whisper 
it  to  you,  but  it  won't  be  till  then,  and  it  won't  be  for 
anybody  else's  ear.  There's  only  one  other  person  that 
must  be  told.  Eric's  got  to  know  it  before  you  make 
Mary  your  wife." 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  make  her  my  wife,"  said  his 
son  gently  but  firmly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are,"  said  Adam  decisively.  "  There's 
no  way  'round  that.  I'm  not  as  good  as  Philip  Mid- 


418  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

thorne  was,  but  Lucy  Barlow  was  as  good  as  most  of 
the  Blagdens.  Don't  forget  that,  my  lad.  Ask  your 
mother.  She  knew  her." 

"  Ask  my  mother ! "  repeated  John  Payson,  with  a 
bitter  smile. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it  to  sound  funny,  Jack,'*  said  Adam 
humbly. 

A  day  or  two  later,  old  Jabez  hobbled  up  to  see  his 
son.  He  stood  at  the  bedside,  peering  quizzically  at 
the  occupant,  on  whose  lips  there  was  a  distorted  grin 
of  welcome. 

"  Well,  Father,  how  are  you?  " 

**  Just  so-so,  Adam,"  replied  the  ancient. 

M  Rheumatism  any  better?  " 

"  Some." 

There  was  a  period  of  silent  regard.  Then  old 
Jabez  found  the  words  he  wanted. 

"  It's  a  blamed  shame,  Adam.  I  don't  see  why  the 
good  Lord  didn't  do  this  to  me,  'stead  of  you.  It 
wouldn't  ha'  made  any  difference  if  it  had  been  me,  but 
—  but  it  don't  seem  right  for  you  to  be  lyin'  here  like 
this  an'  me  skippin'  about  as  spry  as  ever.  It  don't 
,  seem  right." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Adam,  cheerfully.  "  How  old  are 
you,  Father?  " 

"  Eighty  odd  last  January.  Dang  it,  you  ain't  even 
sixty.  That's  why  it's  wrong." 

"  No,"  said  Adam,  **  your  eighty  odd  years  proves 
it  to  be  right.  Nature  makes  us  pay  as  we  go.  You 
haven't  any  scores  to  settle  with  Nature.  That's  why 
you're  eighty  odd  and  spry.  And,  now,  how  are  the 
squirrels  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Jabez,  sitting  down  in  the  chair 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY 

that  had  been  placed  for  him,  "  they're  gettin'  so  blamed 
fresh  that  there  ain't  no  livin'  with  'em.  The  whole 
caboodle  of  'em  got  in  the  house  yesterday  when  I  was 
takin'  a  nap,  and,  dang  me,  if  they  didn't  find  that 
barril  of  peanuts  you  sent  down  last  month.  When  I 
woke  up,  by  gosh,  I  couldn't  hardly  get  out  of  the 
door  fer  peanut  shells.  Fust  I  thought  there'd  been 
a  sudden  snowstorm,  but  they  cracked  so  loud  when  I 
stepped  on  'em  I  knowed  it  couldn't  be  that.  Then  I 
got  to  the  door  and  see  them  fool  critters  settin'  around 
on  the  grass  out  there  in  front,  so  cussed  fat  that  I 
thought  they'd  bust.  They  jest  couldn't  wobble.  You 
never  in  all  your  life,  Adam,  see  such  idiotic  lookin* 
things  as  they  wuz.  A  hundred  of  'em !  Squattin-' 
around  the  place,  kinder  pitiful  like.  Cussin'  them 
didn't  do  no  good.  They  jest  looked  back  and  twigged 
their  tails  feeble  the  more  I  cussed.  And  you  can't  give 
a  squirrel  paregoric  like  you  can  a  baby." 

And  now  you  have  an  idea  of  what  Nature  had  begun 
to  do  for  Jabez  Carr. 

But  I  am  getting  ahead  of  my  story.  Adam  Carr 
did  not  recover  his  speech  until  after  the  brief,  per 
functory  trial  of  Eric  Midthorne  was  over  and  the 
young  man  stood  honourably  acquitted.  The  de 
fendant's  story  was  not  even  assailed  by  the  common 
wealth.  There  was  no  voice  to  dispute  his  claim  of  self- 
defence,  no  witness  to  cast  the  remotest  doubt  upon  the 
statement  he  made.  The  only  human  being  who  might 
have  spoken  for  or  against  him,  was  powerless  to  utter 
an  intelligible  sound. 

When  John  Payson  entered  the  sick-room  and  calmly 
announced  to  his  mother  that  the  jury  had  discharged 
Eric  without  leaving  the  box,  and  on  the  advice  of  the 


420  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Court  himself,  Adam  Can*  opened  his  eyes  and  spoke 
aloud  for  the  first  time  since  he  was  stricken  the  week 
before. 

"  I  knew  they  would,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  but 
quite  distinctly,  to  the  great  amazement  of  the  doctor 
and  the  nurse.  The  Widow  Payson  and  John  were  not 
surprised.  They  understood  the  inscrutable  ways  of  the 
man. 

The  machinery  of  the  law  never  worked  so  fast  as  in 
the  case  of  the  State  vs.  Eric  Midthorne.  Five  days 
after  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  sheriff,  his  case  was 
called  for  hearing.  The  court-room  was  crowded,  for 
the  Courier  had  announced  the  trial  day  and  hour.  No 
one  was  there  in  the  hope  of  finding  fresh  sensations, 
but  to  hear  the  story  of  the  fight  from  the  lips  of  the 
victor  himself. 

Inside  the  railing  sat  the  entire  bar  of  the  city.  Judge 
Oswald  Bright  came  over  from  the  Capital  and  occupied 
a  seat  on  the  bench  beside  the  Court.  His  daughter 
sat  with  Mary  Midthorne  at  the  defendant's  table. 
Horace  Blagden  and  his  wife  had  seats  so  close  to  Eric 
that  they  could  lean  forward  and  whisper  in  his  ear,  an 
oft-repeated  act  which  sent  a  thrill  of  approbation 
through  the  big  audience,  and  had  a  moral  though  ut 
terly  wasted  effect  on  the  jury. 

The  preliminaries  were  brief.  Mr.  State's  Attorney 
Collins  read  the  affidavit  on  information  and  belief  and 
called  his  only  witness  —  the  sheriff  of  the  county,  who 
merely  testified  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  was  the  man 
mentioned  in  the  instrument  and  that  he  had  openly  con 
fessed  to  the  slaying  of  Chetwynd  Blagden.  The  state 
rested.  The  audience  leaned  back  with  an  audible 
breath  of  relief. 

The  defence  very  naturally  moved  to  quash  the  indict- 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  421 

ment  on  the  ground  that  the  corpus  delicti  had  not  been 
established,  but  formally  withdrew  the  motion  a  moment 
later,  as  a  part  of  the  programme,  to  permit  Eric  Mid- 
thorne  to  tell  his  story  on  the  stand.  The  audience  lis 
tened  with  breathless  interest  to  the  recital,  dividing  its 
attention  between  the  young  man  in  the  box  and  the 
grey  haired  parents  of  Chetwynd  Blagden,  watching 
with  eager  eyes  for  some  sign  of  animosity  on  their  part. 
If  the  people  expected  or  hoped  for  a  demonstration 
they  were  disappointed.  The  Blagdens  sat  very  still 
and  erect,  their  pinched  backs  to  the  multitude,  their 
heads  twisted  slightly  toward  the  witness,  from  whose 
face  their  gaze  was  not  once  removed  during  the  uninter 
rupted  recital.  At  its  conclusion  they  turned  ex 
pectantly  toward  the  state's  attorney. 

"  No  questions,  your  honour,"  announced  that  officer 
of  the  commonwealth. 

Horace  Blagden's  figure  straightened  perceptibly.  A 
moment  later  his  own  name  was  called.  He  arose  slowly, 
—  at  any  other  time  we  would  have  said  pompously, — • 
and  slipped  into  the  witness  box.  A  stir  swept  through 
the  crowd.  Here  was  a  sensation,  after  all. 

Facing  the  judge,  the  great  man  of  Corinth  took  the 
oath,  his  right  hand  uplifted.  It  did  not  tremble.  He 
then  testified  to  the  reputation  of  the  defendant  for 
truth  and  veracity,  and  to  his  standing  in  the  community. 
That  was  all.  He  gave  it  clearly,  unfalteringly.  He 
was  not  asked  if  he  were  the  father  of  the  deceased.  It 
was  as  the  first  citizen  of  Corinth  that  he  testified.  One 
could  have  been  excused  for  smiling  at  the  theatric  dis 
play  of  self-regard  that  overshadowed  the  real  intention 
of  the  man.  The  great  man  of  Corinth  was  speaking. 
No  one  could  have  asked  for  more  than  that. 

Horace  Blagden  did  no*  mean  to  place  himself  in  a 


422  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

false  position.  He  was  intensely  sincere  in  his  desire  to 
dissipate  all  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  townspeople  as  to 
his  attitude  toward  his  nephew.  No  more  convincing 
way  could  have  presented  itself,  he  argued,  than  this 
opportunity  to  publicly  repeat  the  sentiment  embodied 
in  his  earlier  newspaper  expression.  Adam  Carr,  when 
he  heard  of  the  act,  uttered  an  opinion  that  no  one  else 
dared  to  voice. 

"  Old  Horace  simply  can't  help  it.  It's  born  in  him. 
When  he  dies,  by  the  grace  of  God,  he'll  lie  in  state. 
And  no  matter  how  dead  he  is,  he'll  know  he's  lying  in 
state." 

The  judge  instructed  the  jury  to  find  for  the  de 
fendant,  and  Eric  was  discharged  from  custody  almost 
before  you  could  have  counted  twelve. 

The  whole  affair  was  so  palpably  predestined  that 
it  savoured  of  travesty,  and  yet  there  was  a  seriousness 
about  it  all  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  law  itself 
did  not  come  in  for  much  consideration.  So  far  as  the 
real  legal  aspects  of  the  case  were  concerned,  all  prece 
dents  were  violated.  But  no  one  cared  about  that.  Not 
a  single  soul  in  all  Corinth  desired  the  punishment  of 
Eric  Midthorne.  Corinth,  therefore,  was  the  law. 

Eric's  trial  was  much  the  same  as  a  wedding  or  a 
funeral:  a  matter  of  a  few  very  important  minutes  and 
then  everybody  going  about  his  own  business  as  if  it 
hadn't  occurred.  The  wedding  means  a  great  deal  to 
the  fellow  who  is  getting  married,  and  the  funeral  is 
of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  chap  who  is  being 
buried,  but  the  world  does  not  care  a  scrap  what  happens 
to  either  of  them  after  it  is  all  over.  Most  of  us  get 
married,  and  all  of  us  die.  People  come  and  see  us  do 
both,  if  the  opportunity  presents  itself,  and  go  away 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  423 

thoroughly  satisfied  that  it  is  the  end  of  the  matter  so 
far  as  they  are  concerned. 

Corinth  would  have  stepped  up  and  congratulated 
Eric  on  his  acquittal  if  it  could  have  done  so  with  pro 
priety.  But  there  had  been  ample  time  for  reflection. 
The  magnanimous  Blagdens  were  to  be  considered. 
How  would  it  appear  to  them  if  everyone  rushed  up  to 
shake  hands  with  the  destroyer  of  their  only  son? 
Dreadful!  So  Corinth,  or  as  much  of  it  as  could  be 
crowded  into  the  court-room,  considerately  effaced  itself 
as  soon  as  the  verdict  was  given. 

While  the  crowd  was  leaving  the  court-room,  the  judge 
on  the  bench  calmly  turned  to  the  clerk  and  said : 

"  Call  the  next  case,  Mr.  Clerk." 

The  regular  panel  remained  in  the  jury  box;  the 
sheriff  went  over  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  the 
gaol ;  and  half  an  hour  later  a  dissolute  sailor  from  the 
water  front  was  on  trial  for  stealing  a  pound  of  to 
bacco,  and  the  state's  attorney  was  working  his  head  off, 
so  to  speak,  to  secure  the  maximum  penalty.  One  has 
to  make  an  example  of  such  chaps,  you  see.  Society  de 
mands  it. 

•  ••••••• 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Presbrey  alone  came  forward  to  con 
gratulate  Eric,  regardless  of  the  presence  of  the  Blag- 
dens  or  the  fitness  of  the  occasion.  With  tears  in  his 
eyes,  he  wrung  the  embarrassed  young  man's  hand  with 
a  vigour  that  suggested  something  long  pent-up  and 
thriving. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Presbrey,"  muttered  Eric,  very  un 
comfortable. 

"  We've  been  praying  for  you,  Eric,"  said  Mr.  Pres 
brey  ;  "  Mrs.  Presbrey  and  I.  Ah,  my  dear  young 


424  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

friend,  you  do  not  know  how  greatly  this  will  please  my 
wife,  your  most  devoted  friend.  She  is  indisposed  to 
day.  Otherwise  she  would  have  accompanied  me  here. 
But  her  heart  is  here,  her  thoughts  are  here." 

"  Good  morning,  Arthur,"  said  Horace  Blagden  pleas 
antly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Julia  is  ill.  Nothing 
serious,  I  hope." 

Mr.  Presbrey's  eyes  flew  wide  open.  He  stared  for  a 
moment.  Then  his  face  turned  a  deep  pink. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  stammered,  completely 
taken  aback.  "  Merely  a  cold,  Mr.  Blagden.  In  the 
head." 

"  Please  remember  us  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Blagden,  slip 
ping  his  arm  through  Eric's.  "  Oh,  by-the-by,  Ar 
thur,"  he  went  on  after  an  instant's  reflection,  "  will  it 
be  convenient  for  you  to  drop  in  to  see  me  at  the  bank 
to-morrow?  Any  hour  will  do.  I  want  to  talk  over  a 
question  in  connexion  with  the  new  library." 

Mr.  Presbrey  stiffened.  "  I  have  read  something 
about  it,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  think  Julia  will  be  well  enough  to  come  to 
dinner  to-morrow  evening? "  asked  Mrs.  Blagden. 
"  Then  you  two  could  have  the  whole  evening  to  your 
selves  in  the  library." 

"  Good !  "  said  her  husband  genially.  "  And  we  could 
have  the  architect  there  to  assist  us.  What  do  you  say, 
Presbrey?" 

Mr.  Presbrey's  face  was  a  study. 

"I  —  I  —  dear  me,  dear  me !  "  he  faltered,  nervously 
fumbling  for  his  handkerchief.  Finding  it,  he  blew  his 
nose  rather  aimlessly  and  then  repeated :  "  Dear  me !  " 
They  were  waiting  for  an  answer.  He  cleared  his 
throat.  "  Really,  I  —  I  —  yes,  yes,  it's  very  good  of 
you,  I  am  sure.  Dear  me !  Of  course,  you  understand, 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  425 

it  is  only  a  cold  in  the  head.  I  fancy  she  will  be  quite 
rid  of  it  by  to-morrow.  Mustard  foot  bath  to-night. 
Yes,  yes !  Hot  mustard  for  a  cold  head  —  cold  in  the 
head,  I  should  say.  Dear  me!  It  will  seem  quite  like 
old  times,  my  dear  friends." 

Horace  was  enjoying  himself.  Afterwards  he  con 
fessed  to  a  certain  meanness  of  spirit,  a  delicious  sensa 
tion  of  malice ;  but  quite  pardonable,  he  argued,  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  returning  good  for  evil.  Eric, 
the  only  other  witness  beside  Mrs.  Blagden,  actually  felt 
sorry  for  the  distressed  ex-minister. 

"  Except  that  we  all  have  grown  older  and  wiser,'* 
supplemented  Mr.  Blagden. 

Mr.  Presbrey  made  haste  to  accept  the  amendment. 
'*  And  better,  I  hope,"  he  said.  He  did  not  know  it,  but 
that  was  a  master-stroke.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  re 
peating  the  amazing  conversation  to  his  wife,  he  quite 
forgot  to  mention  the  remark. 

"  We  dine  at  seven,  Mr.  Presbrey,"  said  Mrs.  Blag- 
iden. 

He  responded  bravely.     "  Instead  of  six-thirty  ?  " 

Ah!     Here  was  tribute  to  the  memory  of  old  times! 

"  I  shall  also  ask  Mr.  King  to  come  in,"  said  Horace, 
in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 

Mr.  Presbrey  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  shall  rejoice 
in  the  opportunity  to  meet  him,"  he  said  desperately. 
"You  said  six-thirty?" 

"  Seven,"  said  Horace.  Then,  as  if  recognising  an 
oversight,  he  extended  his  hand.  Mr.  Presbrey  was  on 
the  point  of  blowing  his  nose  again.  He  hastily 
switched  the  handkerchief  to  his  left  hand,  and  clasped 
the  ends  of  Mr.  Blagden's  fingers  in  his  right.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  hand-shake,  but  it  seemed  to  put  new  life 
into  him.  At  least,,  he  breathed  with  less  difficulty. 


426  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  went  home  to  Julia  in  a  perfect  maze  of  bewilder 
ment.  She  not  only  took  a  mustard  foot  bath  ex 
ternally  but  nine  grains  of  quinine  the  other  way. 

In  the  corridor  of  the  Court-house,  Eric,  walking  be 
tween  his  uncle  and  aunt  with  his  arms  through  theirs, 
burst  out  feelingly: 

"  Uncle  Horace,  you  are  wonderful,  really  wonder 
ful" 

Mr.  Blagden  smiled,  self-satisfied.  "  Paying  off  all 
the  old  scores,  Eric,"  he  said  gravely. 

A  little  group  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  top  of  the 
stairway.  John  Payson  quietly  detached  himself  from 
the  rest  and  started  down-stairs  as  they  approached. 

"  Just  a  moment,  John,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Blag- 
den,  raising  his  voice  slightly.  "  This  is  a  day  for  re 
newing  old  acquaintances,  old  friendships.  Will  you 
shake  hands,  sir?  " 

Payson  did  not  hesitate.  He  clasped  the  banker's 
hand. 

"  Certainly,  sir.     Is  this  your  verdict?  " 

Mr.  Blagden  was  puzzled.  He  looked  into  the  young 
man's  steady  eyes  for  a  moment;  then  the  doubt  was 
'lifted  from  his  own. 

"  It  is,"  he  said  succinctly,  and  Payson  knew  that  at 
last  he  was  acquitted  of  complicity  in  the  bank  defalca 
tion.  An  instant  later  Horace  remarked :  "  I  am  a 
just  man.  By-the-by,"  he  went  on,  "  how  is  Adam 
Carr  to-day?" 

"  There  is  no  change.  Mr.  Blagden,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
He  will  never  speak  again,  sir." 

Then  Horace  Blagden  uttered  a  remarkable  prophecy. 

"  I  know  him  well.  He  will  speak  in  his  own  good 
time.  A  strange,  unaccountable  man,  John.  A  secret 
man.  I  have  been  thinking  of  him  in  the  last  few  days, 


MR.  COOPER'S  BUSY  DAY  427 

thinking  a  great  deal.  Perhaps  you  will  not  mind  say 
ing  to  him  that  I  have  expressed  a  desire  to  come  and  see 
him  some  day.  He  will  hear  you." 

He  left  Payson  standing  there,  staring  after  him  with 
a  look  of  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

Joan  Bright  went  up  to  the  grey  house  on  the  hill 
with  the  two  Midthornes.  In  the  dim  old  library  she 
abruptly  faced  Eric,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him. 
There  were  tears  of  utter  joy  and  gladness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Eric,"  she  said  softly,  "  I  truly  believe  I  am  the 
only  one  who  has  not  changed.  I  am  still  just  what  I 
was  in  the  beginning." 

He  lifted  her  hands  to  his  lips.  "  Love  does  not 
change,"  he  said,  a  deep  thrill  in  his  voice.  "  It  goes  on 
just  the  same  until  it  is  killed,  but  it  does  not  change 
while  it  is  alive.  Love  is  life,  that  is  the  secret  of  it. 
Ah,  it  is  good  to  be  alive,  after  all.  Yesterday  I  could 
have  died.  To-day  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  it.  I 
love  to-day  because  you  are  the  very  heart  of  it,  you  are 
the  life  of  it.  It  throbs  with  you,  Joan  darling.  To 
day  I  love  life  because  I  love  you." 

"  And  because  I  love  you,"  she  added. 

Mary  was  a  silent,  enchanted  listener.  Her  eyes 
glowed  with  the  deep,  mysterious  light,  her  lips  moved 
with  their  lips. 

She  waited  until  he  took  Joan  in  his  arms.  Then  she 
stole  quietly  from  the  room.  They  did  not  hear,  they 
did  not  see.  They  had  forgotten  her.  She  went  up 
stairs  and  took  up  the  portrait  of  a  man  from  her  dress 
ing  table.  She  kissed  it  and  held  it  tight  to  her  breast, 
and  was  no  longer  lonely. 

At  last  Joan  remembered.  With  a  quick  start  of 
confusion  she  released  herself  from  Eric's  arms,  and 


MARY  MIDTHORNE 

turned  a  burning  face,  expecting  to  meet  the  smile  of 
the  girl  who  had  come  into  the  library  with  them. 

u  Oh,  I  wonder  — "  she  began,  after  a  searching 
glance  about  the  room  which  revealed  no  living  witness 
to  the  ancient  encounter. 

She  straightened  her  hat.  "  What  a  dear,  dear  girl 
she  is!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    CUP    IS    FULL 

JABEZ  CARR  sat  outside  his  cottage  on  a  warm  spring 
afternoon  a  fortnight  after  the  trial  of  Eric  Midthorne. 
There  had  been  six  funerals  at  the  Seaman's  Home  dur 
ing  the  past  two  days,  and  Jabez  was  reflective.  Some 
thing  certainly  was  wrong  at  headquarters.  He  could 
not  understand  why  the  grim  reaper  had  been  allowed 
such  privileges.  Gross  neglect  on  somebody's  part ;  that 
was  quite  clear.  Six  in  two  days!  Why,  said  he  to 
himself,  it  must  have  been  downright  criminal  careless 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  confounded  ship's  surgeon,  let 
ting  able-bodied,  healthy  people  die  like  that.  Not  one 
of  them  was  a  day  over  seventy-five,  he  calculated, — 
not  a  single  one  of  them.  There  had  been  no  epidemic 
that  he  was  aware  of, —  no  cholera,  no  small-pox,  no 
anything  that  you  could  put  your  finger  on.  Then, 
what  the  dickens  did  they  mean  down  there,  letting  peo 
ple  die  before  their  time?  There  ought  to  be  an  in 
vestigation,  a  very  rigid  one,  said  Jabez  firmly.  Come 
to  think  of  it,  Jack  Season,  bo's'n,  was  nigh  onto 
eighty,  but  he  was  as  spry  as  a  rabbit  the  last  time 
he  came  up  to  the  gate.  What  business  had  he  to  be 
dying? 

Somehow,  without  really  giving  a  thought  to  it,  the 
ancient  gate-keeper  sought  out  the  only  spot  where  the 
sunshine  struck  brightly  through  the  tree-tops,  and 
there  he  placed  his  stool.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the 
warm  sun  was  unusually  grateful  to  his  bones.  No 

doubt,  it  was  the  gloom  of  those  six  funerals  that  had 

429 


430  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

got  into  his  marrow,  but  there  was  no  getting  around 
the  fact  that  the  sunshine  had  a  most  pleasing  effect. 

The  sun's  rays  struck  the  corner  of  the  cottage  where 
the  rain-barrel  stood.  So  it  was  there  that  he  put  his 
stool.  With  rare  inconsistency  he  leaned  his  back 
against  the  damp  staves  of  the  barrel,  and  smoked  his 
pipe  in  blissful  contempt  of  the  rheumatism  and  other 
ills  that  lay  behind  him.  Sunshine !  No  one  ever  came 
to  grief  by  getting  too  much  sunshine;  that  is,  if  one 
didn't  overdo  it.  The  days  seemed  shorter  than  they 
used  to  be  anyway,  thought  Jabez.  You  could  get  up 
at  sunrise,  attend  to  a  few  things  here  and  there,  and 
the  first  thing  you  knew  the  sun  was  setting.  And  the 
nights,  too,  seemed  shorter  of  late.  Better  get  what 
little  sunshine  there  was,  said  he. 

But  six  in  two  days!  Yes,  sir,  there  was  something 
radically  wrong  somewhere.  He  sat  up  suddenly,  con 
fronted  by  an  uncanny  question:  would  there  be  more 
funerals  on  the  morrow? 

The  squirrels  frisked  about  him  unnoticed.  They  sat 
up  on  their  tails  and  waited  with  admirable  patience  for 
him  to  hurl  sticks  at  them.  They  listened  for  the  mild 
epithets  with  which  he  hectored  them. 

But  he  puffed  on  at  his  cold  pipe,  and  his  thoughts 
were  far  away. 

A  strong  voice  called  out  a  greeting  to  him.  He 
awoke  from  his  long  reverie  with  a  start.  The  sun  had 
moved  away  from  the  rain-barrel  and  gleamed  warm 
against  the  cottage  wall,  a  dozen  paces  to  the  left. 

Four  young  people  were  standing  before  him.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes,  blinked,  and  then  shook  the  tobacco 
from  his  pipe. 

"  What  day  is  this?  "  he  asked  hazily,  coming  to  his 
feet 


THE  CUP  IS  FULL  431 

"  Sunday,  Uncle  Jabe,"  said  Eric. 

He  looked  relieved.  "  There  won't  be  any  to-day," 
he  said.  "  They  never  have  'em  on  Sundays."  With 
which,  the  thought  of  funerals  passed  away.  His  face 
brightened.  The  jolly  twinkle  returned  into  his  eyes. 
A  vast  politeness  seized  him. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  glad  to  see  you,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Here,  Eric,  and  you,  Jack,  trundle  out  them  rockers 
for  the  young  ladies.  Be  spry  about  it.  Scat!  You 
little  divils!  "  This  to  the  joyous  squirrels.  "  I'm  un 
common  pleased  to  see  you,  Miss  Joan.  It's  a  great 
honour."  He  carefully  wiped  his  hand  on  his  trousers 
leg,  and  extended  it  to  meet  hers.  He  then  shook  hands 
with  Mary,  going  farther,  however,  to  pat  the  little 
fingers  with  his  free  hand,  a  feat  which  compelled  him 
to  restore  the  pipe  to  his  lips,  where  it  wobbled  uncer 
tainly,  deprived  of  its  usual  support.  "  Someone  has 
been  tellin'  me  of  the  weddings  that  is  to  be.  For  the 
life  of  me,  I  can't  tell  who  it  was." 

"  It  was  I,  Uncle  Jabe,"  said  Eric,  coming  up  with  one 
of  the  chairs. 

"  So  it  was,"  said  Jabez,  visibly  relieved.  ^  "  I'm  get- 
tin'  so  danged  forgetful.  Well,  Jack,  how  is  Adam  to- 
day?" 

"  Very  comfortable,"  said  Payson.  "  He  sends  his 
love  to  you." 

"  Fine  boy,  Adam  is, —  a  wonderful  boy,"  mused  the 
ancient.  "  Set  down,  gir  —  young  ladies.  Git  out  o' 
this,  dang  ye !  "  He  clapped  his  hands  vigorously  upon 
his  legs  and  several  audacious  quadrupeds  scuttled  off  in 
amazement  but  not  in  fear.  "  Double  weddings  is  good 
luck,  powerful  good  luck,"  he  went  on,  drawing  up  his 
stool.  "  Except  in  one  case  I  remember  of.  That  was 
when  Dick  Fink,  as  fine  a  chap  as  ever  lived,  had  a  double 


432  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

wedding  all  of  his  own.  He  got  married  twice  in  one 
week  to  different  gals  in  different  ports.  Well,  sir,  when 
them  two  gals  found  out  what  he'd  been  up  to,  they 
turned  in  and  got  him  put  in  gaol  an'  made  life  so  mis 
erable  for  him  that  he  was  glad  to  go  to  the  penitentiary 
for  five  years.  When  did  you  leave  New  York,  Jack?  " 

"  Yesterday." 

"  I  suppose  she's  all  there?  I  must  go  down  an'  have 
a  look  at  her  one  o'  these  days.  I  ain't  been  to  New 
York  since  the  war,  forty  odd  year  ago.  Let's  see,  Eric, 
you  said  June,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  The  tenth  of  June,  at  Uncle  Horace's  house.  You 
wifl  come  to  see  us  married,  of  course?  " 

Mr.  Carr  looked  dubious.  "  If  I  can  get  someone  to 
tend  gate  for  me.  I  don't  know  as  I  can  get  anyone, 
though.  Maybe  there  won't  be  anyone  left  by  that 
time.  What's  this  I  hear  about  old  Presbrey  being 
made  boss  of  the  new  library?  That's  all  wrong.  It 
hadn't  ought  to  be.  That's  just  plain  cussed  interfer 
ence  by  Horace  Blagden.  This  here  new  preacher,  Mr. 
King,  is  the  right  man  for  the  place.  He's  a  splendid 
feller.  I  had  no  idee  a  preacher  could  be  such  a  gentle 
man.  See  this  here  new  pipe?  Well,  sir,  he  brought  it 
down  to  me  last  we'ek  with  a  dozen  packages  o'  Yale 
mixture.  Says  he,  it  ain't  wrong  to  smoke,  any  more'n 
it  is  to  eat.  By  ginger,  I  don't  see  what's  come  over 
the  church  these  days.  Old  Presbrey  used  to  say  I'd  go 
to  hell  if  I  smoked.  I  told  him  onct  I'd  sooner  be  in 
hell  smokin'  than  in  heaven  not  doin'  it.  No,  sir!  A 
man  o'  them  narrow  idees  ain't  got  no  business  runnin' 
a  public  library.  He'll  make  a  terrible  mess  of  it,  he 
will.  Why,  how  can  a  feller  read  without  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth?  It's — "  Wo^ds  failed  him.  He  waved  his 
hands  to  complete  the  opinion. 


THE  CUP  IS  FULL  433 

Four  very  happy  young  people  laughed  aloud, 
greatly  to  his  dismay.  He  mumbled  an  apology  and 
got  up  to  shoo  the  squirrels  away. 

"  Next  time  that  little  cuss  comes  pesterin'  around 
you,  Miss  Joan,  hit  him  a  good  one  side  the  head,"  he 
remarked  gruffly. 

"  I  wouldn't  strike  it  for  the  world,"  cried  Joan. 

"  You'd  better  not,"  said  Jabez  sharply,  before  he 
could  think. 

His  subsequent  humility  was  wonderful  to  behold. 

"  Can  you  guess,  Uncle  Jabe,"  began  Eric,  "  what 
we'd  all  like,  most  of  anything  in  the  world  ?  " 

His  eyes  twinkled.  "  Yes,  sir,  I  do  know,"  said  he 
with  a  fine  wink.  The  girls  blushed. 

"  We've  come  to  spend  the  afternoon  listening  to 
those  good  old  stories  of  yours,"  said  Eric  hastily. 
"  That's  what  we  want.  Joan  has  never  heard  you  tell 
stories." 

"  I  want  to  hear  the  very  best  you  have  in  that  won 
derful  head  of  yours,  Uncle  Jabe,"  said  Joan. 

"  I  like  the  one  about  the  pirate  — "  began  Mary 
eagerly. 

But  Jabez  shook  his  head. 

"  They  was  all  lies, —  terrible,  ungodly  lies,"  he  said, 
very  solemnly.  "  It's  wrong  to  tell  'em." 

"  We  know  they  are  lies,"  cried  Mary.  "  That  is 
always  understood  at  the  beginning,  and  that's  why  we 
love  them  so  dearly." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jabez  firmly.  "  I  can't  do  it.  It 
ain't  right.  Mr.  King  has  been  talkin*  to  me  about 
rectitude  and  honour  in  old  age.  He  says  it's  wrong  to 
lie,  'specially  at  my  time  o'  life.  So  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
disappoint  you." 

They  were  disappointed.     "  Just  one  or  two,  Uncle 


434  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Jafce,"  pleaded  Joan.  "  We'll  never  ask  it  of  you  again. 
Two  or  three  whoppers  won't  hurt,  I  am  sure,  if  we 
know  they  — " 

"  Can't  do  it,  Miss  Joan,"  said  he  stubbornly,  but 
with  an  effort  to  subdue  the  wistful  look  in  his  old  eyes. 
"  Nothing  would  please  me  better.     I'd  love  to  do  it.  ' 
But  it  ain't  right,  as  Mr.  King  says.     I  got  to  go  by 
what  he  says." 

Eric  assumed  an  air  of  severity.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  the  church  has  been  meddling  with  your  af 
fairs?" 

"  Meddling  ?  "  gasped  Jabez. 

"  Yes,  sir,  meddling." 

"  Go  long  with  you,  Eric,"  exclaimed  Jabez  help 
lessly.  "  Lies  is  lies." 

"  And  Mr.  King  has  put  the  hand  of  bigotry  on  your 
life?  "  in  fine  scorn. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  demanded  Jabez,  bristling. 

"  Don't  tease,  Eric,"  interposed  Joan. 

"  The  church  has  a  great  deal  to  answer  for,"  insisted 
Midthorne.  "  Meddling  like  this  with  a  man's  busi 
ness." 

"  Business  ?  "  murmured  Jabez.     "  Whose  business  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  your  business  to  make  people  happy  ?  "       I 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  Mr.  King's  business,  too,"  said  he 
resignedly.  "  He  comes  down  here  and  tells  me  the 
truth  about  things  and  I  see  things  in  a  new  way  from 
what  I  used  to.  Old  Presbrey  stretched  the  truth  so 
that  it  looked  mighty  fishy  to  me.  Mr.  King  puts  it  in 
a  nutshell.  If  he  says  it's  wrong  to  lie,  why  it  is, 
that's  all.  Dang  it  all,"  he  exploded  virtuously,  "  I 
never  see  a  pirate  in  my  life.  Nor  a  handsome  princess 
either." 

John  Payson  spoke,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.     "  Do 


THE  CUP  IS  FULL  435 

you  believe  that  everything  in  the  bible  is  true,  Unck 
Jabe?  " 

Jabez  glared  at  him.  "  I'll  believe  it  all  until  some  of 
you  smart  Alecks  prove  it  ain't  true.  I  used  to  laugh  at 
that  tale  about  Jonar  and  the  whale.  Mr.  King  says 
it's  paregorical.  I  told  him  nobody  could  make  me  be 
lieve  a  feller  could  live  inside  a  whale's  belly, —  bible  er 
no  bible.  He  said  he  didn't  believe  it  either.  It's  just 
a  paryble," 

"  They  are  joking  with  you,  Uncle  Jabe,"  said  Mary, 
coming  to  his  rescue. 

"  Of  course,  we  are,"  cried  Eric  warmly.  "  We  will 
not  ask  you  to  tell  us  any  more  lies.  Mr.  King  is  right. 
But  you  surely  can't  object  to  telling  us  a  few  true 
stories." 

Jabez  Carr  pondered.  "  Well,"  he  said  at  last  and 
with  conviction,  "  a  story  ain't  wuth  tellin*  unless  it's  a 
lie."  Then,  to  change  the  subject,  which  was  more 
dangerous  than  he  cared  to  admit :  "  When  do  you 
start  work  on  Judge  Bright's  new  house,  Eric?  " 

And  so,  instead  of  being  entertained  by  him  on  this 
Sunday  afternoon,  they  were  content  and  eager  to  dis 
cuss  their  own  intimate  affairs  for  his  especial  benefit, 
thereby  doing  much  toward  the  support  of  Mr.  King's 
missionary  efforts  and  at  the  same  time  adding  consid 
erable  to  their  own  estimate  of  what  heaven  really  is. 

Jabez  succeeded  in  grasping  a  few  of  the  more  im 
portant  details;  a  thousand  trivial  points  escaped  him. 
By  dint  of  arduous  questioning,  he  gathered  that  the 
ground  was  to  be  broken  next  week  for  the  Bright  man 
sion  ;  that  the  plans  for  the  great  public  library  were  well 
under  way;  that  Jack  and  Mary  were  to  live  in  New 
York  City;  that  Eric  and  Joan  were  to  make  Corinth 
their  home  for  a  few  years,  at  least;  that  the  Widow; 


436  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

Pajson  would  not  hear  to  Adam's  removal  to  a  sani- 
torium  in  the  Adirondacks ;  that  Mr.  Presbrey  and  Mr. 
King  were  bosom  friends;  that  the  former  was  prayer 
leader  in  the  reconstructed  First  Church,  and  very  sure 
about  it ;  that  Mr.  Blagden  was  a  greater  man  than  ever 
before;  that  Mrs.  Blagden  was  an  angel;  that  Corinth 
would  be  put  on  the  map  to  stay ;  that  the  world  was  a 
very  wonderful  abiding  place,  after  all. 

One  secret  remained  untold.  He  was  never  to  know 
that  one  of  the  tall  young  men  who  sat  there  glibly 
talking  was  his  own  grand-son. 

He  walked  with  them  to  the  gate  when  the  dusk  of 
night  began  to  fall.  It  had  been  a  great  afternoon  for 
him,  but  a  distressingly  short  one.  Yes,  they  seemed  to 
be  growing  shorter  all  the  time.  He  leaned  on  the  bars 
and  watched  them  until  they  were  out  of  sight  among 
the  trees. 

"  Funny  thing,"  he  mused,  "  but  I  can't  remember 
being  so  keen  about  things  when  I  was  their  age.  Times 
must  have  changed  a  whole  lot.  Still,  I  wonder.  It 
was  a  long  while  ago.  I  guess  a  young  feller  is  a  young 
feller,  no  matter  where  you  put  him." 

Then  he  went  back,  clucking  to  the  squirrels. 

Adam  Carr,  propped  up  in  his  wheel  chair,  eyed  a 
dark  and  threatening  sky  from  the  tiny  lawn  in  front  of 
the  Widow  Payson's  house  in  Handy  Street.  There  was 
an  alertness  in  his  eyes  that  contrasted  sharply  with  the 
inertness  of  his  body,  which  sagged  in  the  depths  of  the 
chair.  Late  afternoon  winds  came  gently  up  from  the 
sea,  bringing  coolness  to  relieve  the  heat  of  this  blister 
ing  day  in  May. 

Passers-by  bespoke  him  from  the  sidewalk,  along 
which  they  hurried  in  advance  of  the  approaching  storm. 


437 

"  Riding  at  anchor  in  a  safe  cove,"  said  Adam  to  him 
self  and  of  himself. 

Mrs.  Payson  came  to  the  porch. 

"  I  think  we'd  better  have  the  nurse  get  you  into  the 
house,  Adam,"  she  said. 

He  looked  wistfully  at  the  sky.  "  I'd  like  to  have  a 
good  drenching,"  he  said  to  her.  "  It  can't  hurt  me." 

"  Nonsense,"  she  said.  "  Don't  be  silly."  She  went 
into  the  house  to  call  the  nurse. 

He  grumbled.  "  A  little  rain  won't  spoil  me.  You'd 
think  I  was  a  lump  of  sugar  instead  of  clay." 

The  nurse  and  Mrs.  Payson  lifted  the  chair  to  the  tiny 
front  porch. 

"  I'll  stay  out  here,  if  you  please,"  said  he,  "  until  it 
really  begins  to  rain.  I  like  the  rush  of  the  wind.  Don't 
worry.  I  won't  blow  away.  I'm  anchored,  safe 
enough." 

They  left  him  to  wait  for  the  sweep  of  the  storm. 
Who  can  tell  of  the  thoughts,  the  bitter  conflict  of 
thoughts,  that  ran  through  the  keen,  active  brain  of  this 
wonderful  man  as  he  sat  there  glowering  at  a  sky  no 
blacker  than  his  mood? 

There  was  life  in  the  wind  that  swept  his  grim,  expres 
sionless  face ;  there  was  strength  in  the  way  it  came  up  to 
smite  him,  to  caress  him,  to  tantalise  him.  He  opened 
his  mouth  and  drank  it  in,  and  held  his  breath  as  if  to 
keep  it  captive.  His  eyes  shone  with  the  love  of  it,  with 
the  hatred  of  it.  He  loved  it  because  it  was  life;  he 
hated  it  because  it  was  dead  when  it  left  his  lungs  to  go 
oozing  out  into  the  world  again.  And  he  knew  it  would 
come  to  life  the  instant  it  left  him.  He  hated  a  dead 
thing.  He  hated  his  own  body.  He  loved  the  wind  be 
cause  it  could  live  and  die  in  the  same  breath,  and  live  on, 
forever. 


438  MARY  MIDTHORNE 

He  found  himself  wondering,  at  last,  if  there  was  a 
soul  within  him  that  lived  and  died,  and  lived  and  died, 
and  went  on  living  as  the  wind  lived,  without  end  through 
all  time, —  always  and  forever.  It  was  a  strange 
thought  to  him.  He  liked  it.  What  was  the  wind  but 
the  rush  of  countless  souls  that  came  and  went  with  each 
succeeding  breath?  The  wind  would  never  die.  It 
would  cease  one  day  to  visit  his  useless  hulk,  but  it  would 
go  on  forever  just  the  same,  carrying  the  last  breath  of 
him  with  it  —  the  last  bit  of  the  soul  of  him.  He  liked 
the  thought  of  it.  There  was  something  in  it,  after  all. 
Life  went  on  with  the  wind;  death  stayed  behind  to  rot. 
The  wind  would  never  die.  Yes,  that  was  what  they; 
meant  when  they  said  the  soul  would  never  die.  How; 
could  it  die? 

In  that  short  space  of  time,  as  the  storm  came  up, 
Adam  Carr  began  to  grasp  the  elusive  thing  men  call 
religion.  He  was  not  taking  it  on  faith.  He  was  be 
ginning  to  reason  it  out. 

The  first  scattering  drops  of  rain  blew  across  his  face. 
Someone  moved  behind  him.  He  looked  up.  The  nurse 
was  at  the  head  of  his  chair,  smiling. 

"  It's  coming,"  she  said. 

"  Coming  and  going,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  she  did  not 
understand,  it  was  so  mysterious. 

Even  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  gathering  storm,  a 
man  hurried  up  from  the  sidewalk  and  lifted  the  knocker. 

Mrs.  Payson  admitted  him.  A  tall,  frail  man  whose 
hair  was  white, 

"  I've  come,  Adam,  to  see  if  we  cannot  be  friends  after 
all  these  bitter  years,"  said  Horace  Blagden,  stopping 
still  at  the  foot  of  the  chair. 

Adam  caught  his  breath.     He  was  speechless  for  many 


439 

seconds;  long,  tense  seconds  they  were.  When  words 
came,  it  was  the  old  Adam  Carr  who  uttered  them. 

"  Horace,"  he  said,  slowly,  deliberately,  "  it  won't 
seem  natural  not  to  hate  you." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Blagden.  "  It  has  not 
been  easy  for  me,  Adam." 

Adam  Carr  addressed  the  wondering  nurse. 

"  Miss  Hastings,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  take  Mr. 
Blagden's  hat  and  to  push  my  chair  over  by  the  window  ? 
And  then  you  may  leave  us  for  awhile.  I  beg  your  par 
don.  This  is  Mr.  Horace  Blagden,  the  great  man  of 
Corinth." 

Mr.  Blagden  did  not  wince.  If  there  was  a  tinge  of 
irony  in  the  characterisation,  it  escaped  him.  He  bowed 
graciously  to  the  young  woman  and  seated  himself  where 
he  could  look  into  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  just 
made  the  admission  —  the  one  man  in  all  Corinth  to  be 
grudge  him  the  distinction  up  to  the  present  hour.  Ah, 
it  was  something  to  get  that  out  of  Adam  Carr!  Now 
it  was  complete.  His  cup  of  satisfaction  was  full. 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
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MARGARET  PEDLER'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 
RED  ASHES 

A  gripping  story  of  a  doctor  who  failed  in  a  crucial  opera 
tion — and  had  only  himself  to  blame.  Could  the  woman  he  Loved 
forgive  him? 

THE  BARBARIAN  LOVER 

A  love  story  based  on  the  creed  that  the  only  important  things 
between  birth  and  death  are  the  courage  to  face  life  and  the  love 
to  sweeten  it. 

THE  MOON  OUT  OF  REACH 

Nan  Davenant's  problem  is  one  that  many  a  girl  has  faced — 
her  own  happiness  or  her  father's  bond. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS-COME-TRUE 

How  a  man  and  a  woman  fulfilled  a  gypsy's  strange  prophecy. 

THE  HERMIT  OF  FAR  END 

How  love  made  its  way  into  a  walled-in  house  and  a  walled-in 
heart 

THE  LAMP  OF  FATE 

The  story  of  a  woman  who  tried  to  take  all  and  give  nothing. 

THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Do  you  believe  that  husbands  and  wives  should  have  no  se 
crets  from  each  other  ? 

THE  VISION  OF  DESIRE 

An  absorbing  romance  written  with  all  that  sense  of  feminine 
tenderness  that  has  given  the  novels  of  Margaret  Pedler  their 
universal  appeal. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

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,  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 

A  tale  of  Aztec  treasure — of  American  adventurers,  who  seek  h — of 
Zoraida,  who  hides  it. 

•TIMBER-WOLF 

This  is  a  story  of  action  and  of  the  wide  open,  dominated  always  by 
the  heroic  figure  of  Timber- Wolf. 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  humanity, 
and  of  a  beautiful  girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into  at 
courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  becomes  involved  in  a  feud. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

How  Steve  won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved,  is  a  story  filled  with 
breathless  situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  With  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmate*  Trevor's  scheme. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  lulling  his  brother  after  a  quarrel.  Financial  com 
plications,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  make  up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fattens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan,  a  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  finds  a  match 
in  Ygerae  whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone 
Wolf." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,          NEW  YORK 


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